A Study In Silver
by SuperSonic21
Summary: First story in the Silver!Verse series. After being 'invalided' home from Afghanistan, Dr. Watson meets Sherlock Holmes, whose uncanny abilities mean he doesn't have to hide his 'gift' from him. They investigate Brixton cases of sudden retrograde amnesia
1. Doctor John Watson

_**AN:**__**This fic was written after I requested a prompt on Tumblr for an AU Sherlock fanfic to write as a side-project to Hipster!Frankenstein, and the wonderful and amazing mesmiranda obliged. It was supposed to be a oneshot, LOL nope. I got wayyy too into it. So, enjoy, everyone!**_

_**Rated T for language; dark themes; violence. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor any of the characters in it. **_

**_Now those are out of the way, I won't do them again - thanks everyone! Oh, and also, there is now a sequel to this story called 'The Gifted League', available on my profile :) - B._**

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><p>"So what you're saying, Detective Inspector, is that you don't know what's causing this?"<br>The journalist on the second row at the right had a piercing, shrill voice that cut above all other journalists, yet echoed every one of them exactly. The others all piped down, pens poised above paper, thumbs hovering above BlackBerry keyboards, expectant eyes fixed on D.I. Lestrade as if they were predators prowling before a kill.

It was Sergeant Donovan, with a hesitant glance at the pensive Lestrade, who spoke first with a faltering voice: ". . . We are not currently in a position to, to-"  
>"So you don't know, then?" Cut in a different journalist, a man at the back of the room.<br>"We are working on several leads; we have our best people working on this case as we speak-"

The Sergeant wasn't interrupted by a voice this time, but by the simultaneous and irritating noises of every mobile phone in the room receiving messages. The journalists lost concentration for a short second or two, checking their phones. A few raised their eyebrows, and some threw questioning glances at one another. Both Donovan and Lestrade checked their work phones. An anonymous number had messaged them a single word:  
><em>"Wrong!"<em>

Donovan glanced again at Lestrade, a stormy look in her eyes, clearly annoyed. Lestrade grimaced: it was his default expression in these confusing and dark times, it seemed.

"It says, _'Wrong!_ ' . . ." One of the journalists stated, though it sounded more like a question.  
>"Just, ignore it," Lestrade instructed the uncooperative crowd, holding his hands out in front of him, and trying to maintain control; it was like they were a renegade class of schoolchildren. It was a headache he frankly could do without.<p>

"Detective Inspector, the police haven't been very open with us about this, this, _epidemic_," The shrill journalist pointed out again. "Please, could you just tell us what you think's causing it? Is it something in the water supply? Is it airborne - a disease? Should people be staying indoors?"  
>"It's important, above all, not to panic," Lestrade said, trying to reassure the incredulous journalists. "It is an abnormal amount of cases of amnesia in such a short amount of time, in such an, um, in such a concentrated area, but we can assure you, we're working closely with medical experts and we're very close to a breakthrough in the case now-"<p>

There was a second chirruping chorus of beeps. The same message. Once more received by all phones in the room.  
><em>"Wrong!"<em>

The journalists began to look even more sceptical, though it seemed nearly impossible that their faces could contort into even more disapproving expressions than before.

"'_Wrong!_ ' Again . . ." Someone in the first row read aloud, irritating both of the police representatives again.  
>"Just ignore it, please!" Donovan insisted. It was highly unlikely that this conference could be salvaged now. It was over before it had started, and everyone knew it: they had nothing on the sudden amnesia 'epidemic' in London.<p>

The cases had developed in people sharing no known connection: no common gender, ethnicity, age, job, place of work, location – they had nothing in common. Yet they had developed, always, overnight, after a short disappearance. They always turned up somewhere in Brixton. Of course, the police had no leads; everyone knew it.

"Do you have any advice for the public? How can they avoid becoming a victim of the epidemic?"  
>"I think it's a bit rash to be calling it an epidemic," Lestrade pointed out loudly, over the hubbub of the crowd "It's only ten people–"<br>"So far!" Interrupted a voice from the back.  
>"–All I can say for now is - well, try to remember who you are. . ."<p>

Of course, at this blithe suggestion, the crowd went into uproar, but Lestrade was mercifully distracted by the lone bleating of his personal mobile phone. It wasn't his work phone – it was his _personal _mobile phone, the number to which he had given to almost no one, especially not _him_,or anyone likely to tell him it. It was displaying a message sent from the same number as the previous texts:  
><em>"You know where to find me. – SH"<em>

Pocketing the phone with a frown, he drew the conference to an abrupt close, ignoring indignant cries from the journalists, and yelled implications of his incompetence, to make his way out of the room trailed by the Sergeant.

"You've really got to stop him from doing that, Sir," She complained to him with a disapproving stare at the messages she'd received along with everyone else in the room.  
>"I'll stop him when I know how he bloody finds out people's personal numbers in the first place . . ." Grumbled Lestrade, shaking his head. It was a mystery to him how someone who wasn't even technically on the force knew all of the journalists who were coming to official police conferences, as well as their numbers, and most importantly of all, his personal phone number, which he kept reserved for only his immediate family. He knew so much about everyone. It was uncanny, almost impossible, and even to a smart man like Lestrade, unnerving. It made him feel anxious and on edge . . . Lestrade reassured himself that he was clearly just meticulous in his research.<p>

Yeah, that was probably it. After years of sleuthing, his contacts were likely to be many in number; some of them might even be useful and trustworthy.

But even if he did have amazing powers of deduction and research skills that were second to no one, he couldn't be a Detective Inspector. At least, that was what Lestrade had convinced himself. He wasn't made of the right stuff. He was impatient, difficult to like, and had problems with addiction and authority.

Lestrade's job security, even in troubling times such as this, came from the fact that he knew the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was just as human as the next man. Despite his faults, though, maybe he could help the force shed light on this case.

As he himself had put it, "_You know where to find me_ . . ."

Happy cries and laughter always sounded like screams of terror to John Watson, always distracting and diverting his attention, no matter the situation. He should have probably avoided walking through the park on his way to pick up the groceries, but something kept bringing him back. In all honesty, he liked it, in a way: the thrill that came with thinking someone was in danger, or required his help. No, he wasn't a soldier anymore, but he tried his best to still live like one. He couldn't work out how else he was supposed to live. It was impossible to live like he used to: Afghanistan had changed him. It wasn't just his infernal limp, or memories of war's horrors, which he woke up to ever day, sweating and crying. No. It was the memories and reality of something that filled him with regret, shame and self-loathing. Something which had cost him both a place in the army, and the friendship and trust of all his fellow soldiers.

He stared wistfully at the kids at the other side of the park, laughing and joking with one another in a way he couldn't quite remember himself doing when he was that age. He wasn't sure he even _had_ laughed like that as a child. He wished they weren't there, and wondered sullenly why they weren't in school.

He caught himself at that last train of thought. Since when had he become such an old man? He'd noticed a few silver hairs amongst the dirty blonde ones of late when he looked at himself in the mirror, it was true. But when had he started to_ think_ like an old man? He answered his own thoughts quickly and wryly: since everyone else isn't him. Since everyone else is happy. Since everyone else is _normal_ and he isn't.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he almost missed the look of recognition on the face of the man sitting on a nearby bench. It was easily spotted by John, whose vocation had required him to keep his wits about him and to read people constantly, despite being partially lost in thought.  
>"John! - John Watson!"<p>

John wasn't quite sure where he remembered the man from at first, and gave him a quick yet thorough assessment, just like he would back home in Afghanistan – No, just like he would _back in Afghanistan_. It made him repress a shudder that he'd referred to it as 'back home'. Afghanistan was a warzone. It was probably unhealthy to think of it as 'home '.

Male, Caucasian, middle aged, overweight. Dark, greying hair. Spectacles. Geordie accent. Smiling.

"It's Mike! Mike Stanford!" The man clarified with a beckoning gesture.  
>"Oh! Hi, Mark," John replied absent-mindedly, having had his confusion cleared up. Mike was a fellow doctor; an old friend from his time as an intern at St. Bart's Hospital.<br>"Mike," The doctor corrected with a smile, as John rubbed his eyes with the hand that wasn't holding his cane, and shook his head with embarrassment.

"What happened to you? I thought you were abroad getting shot at!" Mike asked with his usual jovial smile, always on the cusp, it seemed, of laughter. John faked a smile back, though it came across as more of a grimace, and replied:  
>"I got shot," Indicating his cane. He walked with a limp. John guessed that this was partly the reason that Mike didn't recognise him in the first place: they'd known each other when they were barely out of University. Young, full of hope . . . Ordinary. John would say that the best thing about that time was that he had been completely boring, average, and <em>oh so ordinary.<em>

They sat on the bench, and talked for a while. Well, Mike talked, John listened as he told him all about teaching, and the envy he felt for the bright young students who were, just as they had long ago, embarking on their careers in medicine. John offered sporadic nods, occasional words of agreement, and even laughter.

If he was honest, John was probably half listening, and half thinking about the time in his life when he hadn't been this way. He didn't like pretending to others that he was fine. The cycle of self-pity and loathing he was stuck in didn't suit him.

Nor did he like to pretend that he'd been invalided home, or that he'd been shot in the first place. It was the official line, but it wasn't true.

The words of his superior rang through his mind, overlaying Mike's complaining, creeping in like damp, and spreading like cancer.  
><em>". . . Not fit for duty, no place in the army . . ."<em> - though John failed to understand why his abnormality would make a worse soldier of him, where in actual fact, it would probably make him a force to be reckoned with. _  
>". . .Should never speak of this again. . ."<em> - he would try and hide it, guaranteed, but he had to live with it. There was no way he could just ignore it, like they could. _  
>". . . Not even strictly human . . ."<em> - just plain insulting, though John wasn't really sure if it was true or not himself-

"John?"  
>Mike's voice crept back, much like a radio tuning in, suddenly at the forefront of his mind as John realised he'd been asked a question.<br>"Not like you to be away with the fairies, Watson!" Mike laughed, though there was an edge to it, and he appeared concerned. "I asked where you're living at the moment,"

"I, uh – I don't really have anywhere. Can't really afford London – not on an army pension. I'd get a flatmate, but who'd want to share with someone like me?"

Mike chuckled again. The sound would have aggravated John if it hadn't made him so curious:  
>"What? What's wrong?"<br>"You're the second person to ask me that today!"  
>"Really? . . . Who was the first?"<p> 


	2. Mr Sherlock Holmes

_**AN: Wow! You**__**'ve been really flattering with all the attention you're given this story so far, everyone! It's amazing seeing as I'm kind of no one :L Anyway, here's the second chapter (I'd already partially written it before I posted the first one, which is why I've updated so quickly. It won't be this quick all the time!). Enjoy, and naturally, read and review! With thanks to my wonderful beta, SharkByOnly, and mesmiranda, who gave me the prompt! – B. **_

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><p>Silver eyes met with those of brown, locked in a glance that lasted only a mere second to Mike, who had brought John to the lab to meet his potential new flatmate.<p>

There, they had found a tall, skinny man with a shock of curly black hair, and skin far paler than John had assumed skin could go. In fact, it appeared almost translucent. John supposed that, as he watched the man painstakingly study something under a microscope, he probably didn't leave the lab much to go outside. He was probably deficient in vitamin D, John's inner doctor pointed out.

He wore a tight suit with a smart jacket, and hadn't so much as looked up when they had entered. His appearance was completely different to that of his ex-cohort of tanned or sunburnt army operatives clad in Kevlar and light camouflage. Although, John far from uneasy about this. He was actually relieved that he was escaping the memories of his time in Afghanistan, at least for the moment.

To the two men involved, the glance had, in fact, not been a mere glance. For the ex-army medic, it had felt much longer than a second. To him it had been a few minutes, or perhaps just long enough to cause embarrassment if he were caught staring into another man's eyes by an old friend.

The tiny hairs on his arms had stood on end as they had looked at one another, causing a skulking sensation he hadn't felt before run through him all of a sudden. He'd felt himself come under new scrutiny; an examination which spread through him like water seeping through cracks in a wall and inside, although without the notable effect of water damage. John didn't feel like he was being damaged at all: simply delicately perused - but not damaged. He wasn't in pain.

It wasn't like he knew what was happening, but he felt – in addition to his eye contact with the other man – as if someone were staring at him; scrutinising his every move, or . . . Or every move he had ever made. His eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction and his brow furrowed ever so minutely.

He blinked, and the younger man's polite, yet fake, half-smile failed him for a second, the corner of his mouth twitching to a smirk as his eyes gleamed mischievously.

Of course, _he_ had felt something completely different. _Seen _something completely different.

"Thank you," The younger man added cordially, after their _one-second-that-felt-like-eternity _glance, taking the mobile phone from John's outstretched hand lightly. John had offered it to him after he had complained of not being able to use his.

He then began to text rapidly, making John wonder how people could actually type that fast on such a small keyboard. It took him forever to text, never mind the annoying predictive text, or the business of adding words to the bloody dictionary. It helped that there was a qwerty keyboard on his Nokia, but the keys were too small for him to type easily with. For Harry, and for the man in front of him, it was fine to use: Harry had small fingers, and the man had thin ones.

For John, the hand-me-down from Harry had never been the perfect fit, along with the personal objections he'd had to taking it in the first place.

The scientist seemed startled suddenly, as if recalling something he had forgotten, and looked over at Mike with an embarrassed smile.  
>"Oh, Mike, I almost forgot! Molly Hooper wanted to see you about the business with the Musgrave murder, as a potential medical teaching case - although I highly doubt it was murder,"<p>

"Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes!" Mike laughed, incredulously shaking his head as he left the room.

He'd left John and his potential flatmate alone, with only the gentle whirring of several mass spectrometers breaking a silence, which John perceived to be awkward.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The tall man asked in a low voice that appeared his norm, without looking away from his microscope to do so.  
>". . . Excuse me?" Asked John, baffled. He wasn't quite sure what the man was asking, nor even if he had, that he would have wanted to answer.<p>

"Afghanistan or Iraq? . . . Which were you '_invalided home_' from? Although you clearly weren't invalided home," The man scoffed, finally twisting around to face John, and to afford him with further eye contact.

"Why else would I – I mean, yes, I was invalided home from service in Afghanistan, but – how did you know . . .?"  
>"Oh, come on, John – you and I both know what's really going on. You don't really have an injury,"<p>

John tried his best not to falter, but he couldn't stop his natural reflexes. He found himself suddenly being flooded with fear, and alarmingly felt that he may be sick in his own mouth.  
>"With respect, you hardly know what you're talking about," John grumbled, unable to look the other man in the eye. "Of course I was injured,"<br>He was a terrible liar, and they both knew it.

"You needn't lie, Dr. Watson. I'm fully aware of people such as _yourself_. . ." He paused, looking back to his microscope. Only a few seconds ticked by, in which John stood looking mystified and wondering what to say. The other man looked up again, suddenly, before asking, "I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't speak for days at on end. Would that bother you?"

"Why do you ask?" Replied John, deciding to ignore the earlier remark the man had made about lying– even if it was true.

'_People such as yourself'_ . . . How the hell had he known about that in the first place? - did he even know, or was he just bullshitting, seeing what sort of reaction he could get out of John if he pretended to know about his past? If so, how had he hit so close to the mark? It seemed nearly impossible that he could touch a nerve so quickly.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst of each other," The other man replied nonchalantly, as he stood up and put on his coat.

"How did you know that's why I came here?" John asked, blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room, which the scientist had so pointedly brought to both of their attention.

"That's hardly the most pressing question on your mind right now, is it, Dr. Watson? . . . Stanford brought an old friend, clearly just back from military service, to meet me on the very same day we'd been discussing flatmates. Obvious. What's far more interesting is _you_: I should like to get to know you, Dr. Watson. Meet me at seven tomorrow – I've got my eye on a nice flat on Baker Street,"

"This ridiculous, we only just met, we know nothing about each other. I don't even know your name!"

"I know you're an army doctor home from service in Afghanistan. I also know that you're finding it hard to find somewhere to live, despite having a brother who could help you out, but you won't go to him because you don't approve of him for some reason, maybe it's because he left his wife, possibly because he drinks. Dull.  
>"There's also the rapturously more interesting point about you being '<em>invalided<em> _home from Afghanistan after being shot_', or at least that's the censored version. A far more probable story to what really happened is : Your superiors found out about the curious abnormality in your anatomical structure, and decided they couldn't fight alongside you. Perhaps because they were jealous, or maybe because they were afraid, maybe because they were stupid. I'd put my money on the latter. I'd also posit that your skills could only help a soldier in active duty, rather than hinder him.  
>"They made up the story about you being shot, forged the papers to have you sent home, and here you are," He finished, smirking slightly when he was finished, looking John up and down.<p>

"And the limp? If I wasn't shot, then why have I got a limp?" John asked, stunned. He wanted to know what the other man would come up with. Partly because he was still confused himself as to why he had a limp: he didn't even have a scar.

"Psychosomatic, I'm afraid. Just like your therapist suspected. You haven't actually been shot, yet you feel as though you have the negative side-effects of your traumatic experience at the hands of both the enemy, and your fellow soldiers. I think that's enough to be going on, don't you?"

Both men were silent for what, again, felt like forever. John was frozen to the spot, hand clutching the handle of his cane as though it were the only thing preventing him from falling into a gaping chasm beneath his feet. The other man was the first to move.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I left my riding crop at the mortuary," He told John, pacing towards the door, and handing his phone back to John. The doctor took it limply, resisting the urge to gape. The message on it that the man had sent, said:  
>"<em>If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH"<br>_Though John wouldn't notice it until sometime later.

John hadn't told a living soul about his experiences in Afghanistan, and he was completely certain that anyone involved had been sworn to secrecy over it, and they probably wouldn't want to tell anyone about it anyway. How could this man possibly, _possibly_ know what happened to him to such a degree of accuracy?

John's new acquaintance turned dramatically when he reached the door to the lab, before leaving him with a few choice last words:  
>"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street," He winked at John, then bade him "Afternoon!"<p>

The door swung shut behind him, as he strode away down the corridor with an odd sense of stylish urgency, coat billowing behind him as he pulled on expensive-looking leather gloves.

John was left standing speechless and alone in the quietly-humming lab, awaiting Mike's return with a single thought in his head:  
><em>Amazing! . . . I wonder if he<em>'s always_ like that . . . _

Expensive wallpaper. Choice soft furnishings. Comfy sofa. Two armchairs: one in green faux-leather, one with a Union flag cushion. Adequate kitchen size.

John's mind still wasn't quite out of the soldier's habit of performing a quick evaluation of every location he set foot in, as well as figuring out the quickest escape route from each. It was a bad habit that he knew well wasn't healthy for him to conduct daily, especially not in his new home.

. . . The place was littered with debris, too: newspapers, books, journals, full files of some kind. In fact, it was mainly various types of literature, aside from a few interesting-looking concoctions in conical flasks on the kitchen side, and a shiny black violin case propped up on the sofa, as well as what looked like a human skull on the mantelpiece. The previous owner probably hadn't moved all of their things out yet. Or they'd died . . .

It was clear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes liked the place: it already looked as if it were his to John, who was looking around just the same as he was. But the difference was that Sherlock looked at it with an ever-so-slightly doting expression on his cold face.

Though he showed barely any signs of endearment, John's intuition interpreted the concerned twitch of his eyebrows, correctly, as a sign that he hoped it would appeal to John as well as it did to himself; the happy lifting of his cheek muscles – though, not a smile– were an exhibit of how chuffed he was to have found it. Not to mention having gotten it between the pair them at a discounted price.

John decided he'd better make a plan of action to get the place cleared up, so that he could share it with his new roommate. However, they began to speak at the same time:  
>"Right. So, we'll just have to move some of this stuff-"<br>"-you can see, I've already moved some of my things in . . ."

Both stopped speaking, allowing an awkward silence to fill the room. The doctor, mortified, looked up at his new flatmate. It only lasted a fraction of a second, though, and thankfully John judged that Sherlock's blank expression meant he wasn't offended, even if he was a little embarrassed. He'd accepted that John couldn't possibly have known the possessions were his, even conceding himself that he was untidy and had a rather odd collection of artefacts. The awkwardness subsided immediately, as Holmes uttered a sheepish, "Well, I suppose I can straighten things up a bit," Before turning to tidy a huge pile of old newspapers.

The landlady entered from the stairs with a warm smile, mentioning tentatively, "There's a room upstairs, if-"  
>"We're not in a relationship, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock told her, turning around to look at John and then to smile quickly and falsely at the kindly woman. John made a face at Sherlock, who was no longer paying attention. Mrs. Hudson had assumed they were dating? . . . How had he known that's what she thought?<p>

Although when he thought about it, they _had_ known each other for a while, so he was likely to know her well; know exactly what she would think about the situation. Apparently, according to Sherlock, there had been a strange sort of situation in Florida, involving her husband, which he'd dealt with. John didn't know how, but somehow he'd ensured that Mr. Hudson had been executed for something or other . . .

"Oh – Well, don't worry, dear," She reassured John, patting him John on the shoulder, "Mrs. Turner next door's got _married ones_," She added. Still baffled as she left the room, John sat down on the armchair with the Union flag cushion, staring at a fixed point on the floor in contemplation and laying his cane down with a sigh. He had a sinking feeling that everyone from now on could possibly interpret his relationship with Sherlock as . . . _Romantic._

"Find anything interesting?" Sherlock asked him, cutting through John's thoughts with his baritone voice and ceasing to tidy up due to boredom.  
>"Hmm?" Replied John, once again failing to follow Sherlock's sudden jump in logic.<br>"Well, I'm assuming you looked me up last night. You found my website, obviously. '_The Science of Deduction_'. What did you think?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound offhand and casual as he stood by the window, hands in his pockets.

It wasn't working. John could see the eager anticipation shining in his glassy eyes as he awaited his reply.

John's sceptical look conveyed his opinion of the website.

"You think I was exaggerating," Holmes realised as he turned, disappointed, away from John and looked out of the window with a distant expression. He was clearly trying not to look put out by John's lukewarm reaction.

"But believe me," He continued, sounding a little more passionate "I _can_ tell a software designer from his tie, _and_ an airline pilot from his left thumb – just like I could read your military career from your face and leg, and your brother's drinking habits from your mobile phone, but your extraordinary talents from your . . ."

Something outside the window in the street below had distracted him from his trail of thought, which he then frowned slightly at. John, however, had been far from distracted from Sherlock's point, as the sound of a car door slamming came from outside.

"From what? . . . What drew you to that conclusion? – _Sherlock?_"

But Sherlock wasn't listening, and Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs, asking, "What about these amnesiacs, Sherlock? Why aren't you investigating those? Seems right up your street! How many have there been now? Ten, or so? Awful business!"

"Eleven," Sherlock interrupted, "There's been another. But something's different this time . . ." He added, turning towards the door, as a grey-haired man in a black overcoat and cheap shoes entered.

Immediately Sherlock asked him, "What's different this time?"

The man had a rough voice, and didn't seem to be put off by Sherlock's seemingly humanly unobtainable knowledge, as he explained, "You know how there are never any clues? There are this time, and a location – _and_ we could have some DNA evidence, too. Can you come?"

"Not in the police car," Sherlock told him, before asking where the crime scene was. He pulled on the coat and scarf he had only just discarded, as John considered how wrong he had been when he'd assumed that Sherlock never left the lab.

Holmes asked the landlady for some cold food for later (despite her protests of '_not your housekeeper_'), and said goodbye to John before heading down the stairs.

It took him less than a minute to creep back into the apartment, and offer the former army-medic a chance to see some more trouble than he that which he has already seen in his military career, in the form of investigating the case with him. He replied that he'd seen enough danger for one lifetime.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked him, with a mischievous smirk that John was beginning to realise was characteristic of Sherlock at his happiest, most contented and excited. John smirked right back at him, not hesitating to reply,

"_Oh God ,yes!" _


	3. Mrs Jennifer Wilson

_**AN: "You really know how to get someone hooked" – one of the best compliments that can be bestowed upon a writer! Hopefully, I won**_'_**t disappoint you all with this next chapter. It**_'s_** a little longer than the others, and I hope you think it's gradually gathering speed. )  
>Anyway, enjoy, and as always, please read and review! Thanks – B. <strong>_

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><p>"Amazing! - Extraordinary,"<p>

Sherlock fixed John with a side-long stare: a queer look that accurately showed how perplexed he was at John's reaction. He'd just described John's life – his physical and mental problems, and his family's troubles – with such a degree of accuracy that it would have been thought impossible by the average person. Sherlock, however, was not the average person. He knew too that John was also far from average.

The scratches on the phone, John's forgetting to sit down, his specific tan-lines: nice touches, Holmes liked to think. Meretricious, he thought also, but nice. He kept this fact – not an opinion, a fact – to himself. He didn't want to scupper his chances at having an actual civil acquaintance before they'd even began, which he might do if he belittled his skills.

Perhaps, if he tried _a little, _he could make a friend of his new flatmate. It was an exciting prospect, but he wouldn't let on.

He wasn't yet sure that John's remark hadn't been sarcastic, though. So, he added in as tentative a way as he believed was possible for him to summon,  
>"That's not what people normally say,"<br>"What do people normally say?" Asked John, still smiling and in awe of the simple deductions Sherlock had just reeled off.

Sherlock's face twisted into an almost-ugly grimace, as he thought about rejection after rejection he'd had after exhibiting his powers – those of deduction, and reasoning.  
>"<em>Piss off<em>!"

The taxi continued on, much to Sherlock's surprise and annoyance, past the street they were supposed to be going down to view the place the victim had been found. With and indignant scowl, he leaned to the middle of the taxi, watching the police car they were following turn in the direction of Scotland Yard.

"We're going to see the victim," He muttered sourly, before leaning back and folding his arms, sulking like a petulant child.  
>"What, the amnesia victim? . . . Why is that a bad thing?" John asked, puzzled by Sherlock's negative reaction.<p>

"An amnesiac can't be much use to anyone, John. I suppose that an examination of the clothes and possessions _might_ be of _some_ use to me," Sherlock begrudgingly conceded. But in the back of his mind a plan had already begun to take form. He added, "But Lestrade will probably insist upon me talking to them,"

John sighed. It was clear his new flatmate was a little precious when it came to his work. He'd been informed that Sherlock was a _consulting detective_, and not an amateur, by the man himself. He still wasn't quite sure of all of the connotations of this job title.

Sherlock leant his head against the window, watching with half-closed eyes as the bright, boring lights of streetlamps went by, his eyes flicking between them until he thought he might die from the boredom. Just when John thought he might be drifting off to sleep, he suddenly asked a question.

"Did I get anything wrong? – My deductions, John," He clarified, seeing John about to ask what he meant for the hundredth time. He was getting more used to Sherlock's cryptic statements now, though. It just took time, apparently.

"Me and Harry have never gotten along. Harry does have a problem with drink, and you were right about the divorce, too. But Harry is short for-"  
>"Harriet! Oh, there's always something," Holmes finished, obviously realising straight away what Watson was getting at. He'd perked up a little: hearing he was right usually had that effect on him.<p>

But as he looked over at John through the dark of the taxi, he saw that his flatmate was grimacing. He'd just thought of something unpleasant; something he wanted to bring up, to ask.

"There's the other things, though . . . You said you could read my military career from my leg, Harry's drinking from my phone, but – but what about the other things? You said before that you thought I hadn't been invalided home, and something stupid about, about-"

"I think the phrase I used was _anatomical structure_," Sherlock put in. He was once again looking out of the window with far-away eyes. He recognised that they'd be arriving soon, but drifted somewhere above the conversation, wondering what he could say when the time came. "And it wasn't stupid."

John took a deep breath, and asked again, "Well, how did you kn-" He caught himself, and hastily finished, instead, with, "– how did you _come up with_ those, those – deductions?" He stuttered, wishing he had more courage in his conviction when it came to the other man. He was just so much younger and smarter than John. It was a little bit of a knock to his confidence that his personal secrets were known by someone he'd barely met.

He somehow doubted, though, that Sherlock would tell anyone. He hadn't spoken about it in front of anyone else, and John suddenly found himself supposing that the errand he'd sent Mike on, before they'd spoken in the lab, was an ersatz one. Similarly, he'd cut himself off from talking about it when Mrs. Hudson had been in earshot.

This simply caused more bafflement in John's eyes, but he found comfort in the fact that his new flatmate was careful and protective of_ what he thought he knew_ about John. It was almost loyal.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and they both unbuckled their seatbelts, though John never once took his eyes off of Sherlock, trying desperately to gauge his reaction and to gain an answer from it. He was unsuccessful, even when Sherlock did eventually deal him a verbal answer.

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Sherlock assured him unhelpfully without even turning to face him, as he got out of the cab and walked swiftly into Scotland Yard. He heard John call his name and for him to wait, and his subsequent sigh from several metres away. He didn't stop nor turn around.

He smiled a small, sad smile to himself, slipping hands into his pockets. He would have _liked_ to let John in on his methods, but by revealing them he always found they became a little less wondrous and a little more commonplace.

He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was trying to impress and enthral his new flatmate.  
>It was the only way he knew of that he could make him his friend.<p>

Sherlock seemed so at ease as they stopped outside the interview room that John was beginning to suspect he was lying about not being an official police detective. However, he also suspected that Sherlock quite often just walked around every place he entered like he owned it. Both could equally have been true to the ex-army medic.

"We've ascertained that her name's Jennifer Wilson, and she's a reporting fashion correspondent for a Sunday newspaper supplement. We gathered that information from her belongings, which included a purse, so we're ruling out robbery for now," Lestrade began.  
>"And why didn't you call me sooner?" Sherlock asked coldly, glancing through the small glass window into the room. John peered through too, though didn't like what he saw.<br>Lestrade looked down and pursed his lips, looking even more tired than before, and then looked back up at the taller man. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I suppose this is Sgt. Donovan's influence," He said with a quick disapproving sigh, but decided not to give the Detective Inspector any more grief directly about it. He was in urgent need of a cigarette and had only nicotine patches to hand: a situation Sherlock, for once, could all too well empathise with at that moment.

"My influence along with the rest of Scotland Yard, freak," Answered a voice from behind John and Sherlock. John tried his best not to look startled, because he knew Sherlock wasn't; he felt that he had to keep up with him.

"Sally. Always a pleasure," Sherlock replied with a squinting, closed-mouth fake smile. The loathing between the two was clear as day, even to John. The DI looked fed up of the confrontation already, and opened his mouth to say so, but of course they were deep in argument by then.

"Who's he, then? Why is he in here?" Donovan demanded, pointing at John.  
>"Doctor Watson is a colleague of mine," The consulting detective retorted quickly, a statement John was a little surprised by, but hid it well for once, and decided to go with it.<br>"A colleague? How did you get a colleague?" She snorted with incredulity, before turning to John and sarcastically asking, "What, did he follow you home or something?"  
>"Talking about going home, maybe you should've last night – How <em>is<em> Anderson?"

Lestrade looked disappointed and a little embarrassed, so John decided to step into the fray.  
>"Alright! Calm down, both of you. There's time for that later. What were you saying, Detective Inspector?" He asked.<p>

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John for a second, after he'd basically done his job of handling his team for him. He wasn't angry, though: he was grateful, as he fixed Sherlock and Donovan with hard stares each. He continued with his explanation of the situation.

"Retrograde amnesia – that is to say, she can't remember how she got to where we found her, what she was doing there. She's had an MRI, like the others, but also like them, there's no sign of any sort of trauma at all. But Sherlock, just remember, she doesn't even know her own name. So, just be careful not to distress her or anything, yeah?"

"Oh, I shan't be the one talking to her," Sherlock answered dramatically, putting his plan into action, "I believe Doctor Watson, what with his experience in medicine, would be a far better candidate. He was an army medic, and so he's had his fair share of talking to traumatised victims of many descriptions. Besides, I should quite like to view the possessions and clothes of the victim," He finished, as if letting random doctors perform interviews was a routine practise during cases.

He glanced at John, who was openly gaping at the suggestion. Seeing the look Sherlock gave him helped him to restore face to a more neutral expression, and nod along with his flatmate's suggestion. He hoped Sherlock had a plan that he could go along with, and wasn't just making this up on the spot . . .

"We're already breaking enough rules letting you go and talk to her, let alone him! I mean, who is he? He could be _anyone_ for all we know!" Donovan complained, but Lestrade pulled a face at her that said _shut up_, before going back to looking intrigued at Sherlock's suggestion.

"Doctor Watson is an upstanding citizen. You can check your records, you'll find no history of criminal activity, and several rewards for valour before he was unfortunately shot and removed from active duty," Sherlock assured them, with a smirking smile at the last few words in John's direction. John's stony face meant, obviously, that he was sick of his history being publicly brought up by Holmes. Sherlock well understood this, and decided it would probably be best to shut up about it if he were to gain a friend here.

Lestrade looked at each of the men in turn, and, madly, actually considered the suggestion. Of course, it would definitely be breaking the rules. But they hadn't had a break in this case since . . . Well, _ever,_ and they were in dire need of one. They needed 'out there' thinking such as the type Holmes was producing, even though it pained him to admit that he needed him in the first place.

Lestrade sighed, and looked first to the consulting detective, and then to the ex-army medic. He shook his head, then threw his hands in the air.  
>"Fine! We could use some help with the belongings - they're a bit all over the shop," the D.I. admitted. Sherlock rubbed his hands with glee while Donovan audibly tutted with discontent. John felt bewildered by the situation.<p>

Of course, he would help in any way possible: it was in his nature. But interviewing an amnesia sufferer wasn't quite what he'd expected to be doing an hour or so after looking at his new flat.

Even so, he puffed out his cheeks, and asked,  
>"Okay . . . What should I ask first?"<p>

Blanched as if she'd been covered in flour, Jennifer Wilson sat with her hands on her lap, fixing her gaze on one particular speck on the grey table. Her large, tired eyes didn't falter much when John opened the door, nor when he sat down or introduced himself.

"Hello, Mrs . . . Wilson. I'm Doctor John Watson," He began, holding out his hand towards her to shake. She didn't take it. It took her about five seconds to react at all.

"Hello," She replied eventually, in a quick and stifled voice. She sniffed once; her movements were all deliberate, and precise. It was a clue as to her old personality: John's immediate judgement of her told him she was probably a woman who knew what she wanted at all times, and was smart and decisive enough to get it.

However, at that moment, one of her hands pulled at a thread on the sleeve of the police standard-issue grey sweatshirt she was wearing. John suspected from this that she probably worried a lot, too.

She had matching jogging bottoms to her grey sweater. It was a grim sight to behold: a victim dressed like a prison-dwelling criminal. Donovan had tried her best to get together some nicer clothes, but to no avail. John was sensing that trying her best but not succeeding was her _modus operandi_.

John smiled, trying to be reassuring; though he was sure he was failing. She wasn't looking at him anymore. He nervously checked his list of questions Lestrade wanted him to ask, as well as observations Sherlock wanted him to make. He was such a liar! '_An amnesiac can_'_t be much use to anyone, John._' Well, he'd wanted to know what her accent was like, and it was Welsh. She was useful to him already, so there was _that_ theory blown.

He still couldn't believe he had let Sherlock talk him into this. He scanned the clipboard again with wistfully.

He checked her ring finger for Sherlock first. Her wedding ring had been removed as evidence, but she'd been told she could have it back after the investigation. The rest of her skin aside from her ring finger – despite the pallid hue it was receiving from the unfortunate lighting – was tanned. Thus, Sherlock was expecting Mrs. Wilson to have a tan line on her ring finger from her wedding ring.

While she did have a tan line, John noticed that it was very faint, almost like she hardly wore the ring . . . Maybe sunbeds? She wouldn't want it to heat up and burn her on a sunbed when she was getting a tan.

The use of tan-lines as a tool for making deductions had been exhibited to John by Sherlock earlier, and John was beginning to see that his skills were kind of attainable. Given enough time, and an extreme degree of nosiness and boredom, that was. He almost smiled at that, but then became instantly aware of his surroundings. He gulped, and moved onto a question of Lestrade's.

"What, um . . . Oh, here we are - what's the first memory you have available to you?"  
>Jennifer Wilson huffed, almost rolling her eyes, though she was a little too emotionally rattled to put such a flippant gesture into practise. She seemed a little angrier than before as she answered.<p>

"They keep asking me that, like it's something _easy_ to answer! Listen, it's like – sort of like, when you try and think of how a dream began . . . As I keep saying, I was in the house – I _don_'_t _know how I got there, thanks – and it's not a specific memory, but I was on the floor. I, I think I'd been asleep or something, though I don't know how or why I would have fallen asleep, not on _that _disgusting grimy floor, or in that awful house at all. Then – then I got up and there were these, these kids, screaming and running about. And . . ."

"Go on?" John urged, as he simultaneously took another observation for Sherlock. _Yes, her fingernails were painted. Yes, they were totally wrecked and jagged . . . How had he known? _

" . . . And – Sorry, what's that?" She demanded, pointing at the clipboard, and fixing him with a stern look.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, just a list – they want me to ask you some questions is all," John told her, with a polite smile.

"Oh . . . Oh, I get it. Perfect, just . . . Perfect. They think I'm mad, don't they?" She asked, frustrated, and ignoring John's attempts at interrupting her to deny this. She was wide-eyed and sounding hysterical all of a sudden. He'd seen it before, and it wasn't a look you'd want to see in the eyes of a loved one, although he already had in his life.

"That's why they sent a doctor in here! – Why else?" She asked, shaking her head and folding her arms, and glaring at John in disbelief. Her face was cold, and though she was younger than John, the stress of the situation had aged her face until she appeared older than he was. He guessed that she was usually quite pretty.

Gradually, as they sat in silence while John froze, unable to think of what to say, the stern expression began to crack. Her top lip quivered, and her eyes began to leak against her will. Eventually, she stopped refusing to accept that she was crying, and buried her head in her hands.

John took a small packet of tissues from his pocket, and pushed them towards her across the table: he liked to be prepared for anything, though he could have never anticipated this situation. He looked at her sympathetically.

Physically stressful situations were the ones he was best at dealing with practically and accurately; he could also be helpful with his actions in emotionally stressful situations like this. But when it came to saying the right thing, they left him frozen, unable to think of what to say.

She snatched up the tissues, obviously done with trying to be brave and strong, and crumbling. She said in a suddenly less demanding and more broken voice, "I can't take this – not, not on top of everything, on top of being, being here - I'm not mad, I'm not, but . . . They, they -"

"They don't believe you. Am I close? . . . It's almost like they think you're making it up-"

John had spoken in a moment of never-before-seen inspiration on his part. Verbal consolation was not his forte, but all of a sudden, he'd been hit with an idea of what he could say. It seemed obvious to him now. After all, what she was going through wasn't so far from anything he'd experienced. How had he not seen this before?

She looked up, a few tears slipping down her face and welling above her cupid's bow. He was looking her in the eye, but not with the same look of pity as before. It was more like empathy.

"- and you know it's not your fault, you can't help it, but you feel that it doesn't make any real difference . . . You're still a burden – someone to be dealt with, and then never talked about again . . ."

She wiped her eyes delicately with her thumbs, in a way that made John think she might usually wear makeup, and be used to trying not to smudge it. If she _had_ been wearing makeup, it would be trailing down her face now, just like her tears.

"Did you . . . Did you – _forget_?" She mumbled, sniffing again. Her red eyes came up to meet his, but he looked away. He felt ashamed of his own thoughts, because at that moment, even in the presence of this poor woman, he wished that he _could_ forget.

He decided to ignore it, and try and console her with his story, though it pained him to repeat it over and over again as he had been recently. It was an edited version, yes, but it would serve to give her hope for the future.

"I used to be in the army," He explained to her, "I was shot. I couldn't walk properly, and I still have a limp, as you can see," He said, indicating his cane, which he'd propped up against the table upon entry. "I used to think that no one would care about me anymore after I got injured. Not family, or friends – but it doesn't matter. You might think you're just a burden to them now, but I can assure you, they'll just be glad to have you back. The sooner they can see you, the sooner they'll be able to show you who you are again," He told her with an earnest expression that he mentally referred to as his _'Doctor Look'_. It usually did the job of making people feel more at ease.

He wasn't sure where all this hopeful thinking was coming from, nor the positivity he was conjuring, but he was suddenly coming out with heart-warming speeches about the value of family. He knew he was a hypocrite, what with his fighting with Harry and all, but he assumed she had a stable relationship with her husband that could be rebuilt.

"Can . . . Could I – could I remember again?" She asked quietly, a tissue screwed up and tear-stained in her hand. He looked her in the eye again as she replied.

"Spontaneous recovery is . . . Rare, but all you need is time. Believe me, I've seen cases like this before, Mrs. Wilson," He finished with a smile.

"Jennie," She corrected, and looked down with a sad half-smile. "I think . . . I think, I feel more like a Jennie,"

She was much calmer than before; more receptive. When he moved onto Lestrade's questions again, he did so in a more gentle way, feeling less nervous now that he had gained her trust; she was more obliging to answer them.

Obviously she hadn't been made to feel completely better, and she wasn't happy, but John's comforting had started a process of recovery in her that would take several years, but would eventually end in her being 'normal' again.

And for that reason, John Watson envied the amnesia victim he had helped . . .

. . . Somewhere upstairs, reviewing evidence, Sherlock Holmes' mouth quirked into a sly smile. _This one was a keeper_.

He was sifting through Jennifer Wilson's possessions. They'd already found some light grey hair in the pocket of the coat: dull, uninteresting DNA trace with no leads at all. But now, Sherlock was onto something.

He pulled out a shining five pound coin, a colour match to the hairs, from the hot-pink coat pocket. It glinted in the harsh white of the evidence room, as he held it up with a gloved hand to the light, and enthused to himself,

"Silver!"


	4. Mr Mycroft Holmes

_**AN: It was commented by my beta that "[I] know how to end a chapter" Well, I hope you all thought that was true! More on that later, anyway.**__**  
><strong>__**Enjoy, read and review! I really want to know what's going on in your heads as you read, and what your theories are. One person asked 'Are they mutants?' – that sort of thing. Please, give feedback!**__**  
><strong>__**Thanks for reading! - B. **_

* * *

><p>Heaving the case onto his small coffee table that had been burnt with ash and acid in days gone by, Sherlock's hands eagerly slid over the pink canvas it was made of. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't wait to examine it any longer. He knelt at its side, towering over it, his eyes shining bright with the thrill of the chase.<p>

It was a little grimy from the skip he'd found it in: searching the skips nearest to the crime scene, it had taken him under an hour to find the one it had been deposited in by what he liked to think of as his new friend. He was getting careless, now that he'd successfully managed to get his victim-count up to eleven.

Oh yes, Sherlock had thought, as soon as he'd retrieved the silver five pound coin from Jennifer Wilson's coat pocket. Yes, it was a _person_ doing this. And yes, he was getting careless with his success. More likely, he was growing bored, and tired with the lack of recognition.

He'd started using a _calling card_.

Sherlock had asked Lestrade to check the other victim's possessions, and see if he could find any other strange types of currency on them. There was no real reason for Jennifer Wilson, a modern, city-based woman and a professional, to collect irregular currency, even less for her to carry it with her at all times.

Therefore, it was the perpetrator's, and it wasn't there by mistake. Sherlock was convinced of it. They obviously wanted to speed things up; to be recognised. His friend was growing confident, and more impatient.

Well, '_friend_'. . . More like a new curiosity Sherlock wanted to collect. He wondered what was in store for him when they eventually met, which he had no doubt would come soon.

. . . _Nothing?_

He shut his eyes, and took a deep breath, calming himself down. It had been _so long _since the last case as interesting and this, so he was having a little trouble focussing. He just had to take his time, that was all. Be thorough. Be _himself_, be Sherlock Holmes, the infallible consulting detective, who never struggled. Who never slept, or ate, or cared. That was him.

But to be honest, this new problem had scared him a little. There wasn't a lot he could do with an amnesiac. When he'd first heard the case, he'd felt a little redundant. While his deduction and theorising skills – for example, when given data such as he had found in the evidence locker – were second to none, he had nothing to fall back on. No safety net of abnormality: nothing. It scared him, but . . . It thrilled him, too.

There was all the more to play for, and all the more to prove. He would crack this case. _He_ would crack the case, while being nothing more than ordinary – though ordinary, for Sherlock Holmes, was still very extraordinary indeed. He shut his eyes.

He ran his fingers along the top of the case, the rough material creating snagging friction against his soft, pale hands. He felt them tingle, as he thought for a second. Or rather, stopped thinking, and started to feel.

It took him just under a minute before he opened his eyes, looking discontented and slightly panicked. He turned sharply around, and stood up, scanning the highest bookshelf for his ashtray. It was where he kept his lock-pick these days: it wasn't any use to him anymore other than as somewhere to hide suspect items without arousing suspicion.

He reached up – even _he_ had to stand on tiptoes to reach it – and snatched the lock-pick; it took under a minute to get the case open. He rummaged excitedly for a minute, searching for something he may have missed, throwing clothes behind him, and looking through papers and documents. But he was in such a panicked frenzy, didn't find what he was looking for.

Disappointment sobered him up: the perfect antidote to the thrill of finding the case was finding that it didn't contain what he had wanted it to.

Dejected, he turned away from the case, a disgusted expression of frustration contorting his handsome features.

"No phone. Who doesn't have a _phone_? She's not a Luddite, it's clear from her occupation, so why no phone? Why do people insist on being so _inconsistent_?"

She probably left it somewhere.

"I _highly_ doubt that," Sherlock growled, throwing himself onto the sofa theatrically, and grabbing handfuls of his hair to pull. "Of course it happens – people leave things in their hotel rooms, or on their bus, or train, or cab, but . . . She was very clever. John will say as much, I know for sure. She would never make such an error," He considered, letting go of his hair after ruffling it about with agitation.

He rubbed his chin with contemplation, his eyes lazily evaluating the flat, glazed over.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he realised: not finding it . . . _Not _finding it was more of a treat than finding it, because, "Perhaps it was taken from her, by-"

By the perpetrator. Excellent, Sherlock.

"Yes, _thank you_!" He said, impatiently. "Now go and – I don't know, go and busy yourself with your stamp collection or something. Stop intervening, you're putting me off," He dismissed, making a shooing motion with his hands.

Just checking to see that you're alright. And I don't have a stamp collection.

"Yes, well, I'm fine, so there's no need to stick around. And you keep it in the second draw down of the mahogany chest, the one with the brass lock, the combination to which is my Birthday," Sherlock said flatly.

I rue the days I spent not bothering to shield myself from your prying. There shan't be any repeats of those occasions, rest assured.

"Quite. You should be more careful if you don't want me to burn your stamps. Now, run along,"

What about this _John_? What did you say earlier?

"Nothing that concerns you. It's to do with the case, never mind," Sherlock muttered, standing up, and physically waving away the question.

Is he your friend?

"Colleague. Colleague, flatmate . . . Friend, yes," Sherlock considered, and decisively finished. "Not that it's any of your business anyway,"

Fair enough . . . Just, be safe.

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, and had another look at the case with a suspicious eye.

There was something about it, he wasn't sure what, that screamed at him – and it _wasn't _just the frankly alarming shade of pink (to match the coat).

Suddenly, he realised: he leapt off the sofa, and snatched up the label at the top, and openly grinned to himself. There was a contact number!

The phone had been taken by the perpetrator, and there was a number for the phone. Perfect.

He was about to compose a text to the perpetrator when he had a sudden negative wave of feeling wash over him. He dropped his BlackBerry, and sunk limply onto the nearest armchair: the one John had sat in, with the Union flag cushion.

He lolled slightly, half-closing his eyes to get a better focus.

Oh, _great_.

Sighing as dramatically as he could, he reached for the phone he'd just dropped. He composed a text message to John, deciding he'd get on better if he gave him an excuse to leave. He'd send it when he felt John had probably answered enough questions to ensure that they weren't bothered again; he sat for a while in thought, letting his eyelids droop to three-quarters shut, craving a cigarette.

_Trust Mycroft not to trust any associate of his little brother's._

Slightly earlier, John was limping along a damp, dark high street in search of a taxi, lost in thought.

He _was_ shot.

It was the only other thing Sherlock had gotten wrong aside from Harry, but it was something he'd hesitated to bring up. It would start a conversation he wouldn't enjoy about his unique '_anatomical structure_' (though he had to begrudgingly admit that he hadn't thought of a more succinct way to refer to his skills than those two words) that he'd have to grit his teeth and sit through, stoically saying nothing. So, he wasn't in that big a hurry to correct his friend.

_Well, some friend_, John thought to himself, checking the street sign. Sherlock had left John at Scotland Yard, having dashed off in the direction of some place or other. Lestrade seemed as perplexed as he was about where Sherlock had actually gone, and they'd shared a jovial chat about his annoying habits.

Lestrade had also commented on John's performance in the interview room, watched by more than a few curious officers from behind a two-way mirror. He'd shaken his head, smiling in barely-disguised delight at the fact he'd been able to do what no one else had: to calm Jennifer Wilson down, and make her more cooperative. He'd said it was like magic.

John didn't like to think that magic existed. He'd had enough of the supernatural for one lifetime or more.

Donovan had had a few choice words for him, of course. She'd tried to convince him, without much success, to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. Yet another one of her many failures, John catalogued. He was beginning to feel like hanging around with Sherlock, who cared little about the feelings of others, was rubbing off on him already. The crucial difference between the doctor and the sleuth was that one kept their mouth shut to preserve the feelings of others, and one most certainly did not.

An interesting thing she'd mentioned was that he didn't get paid for doing his job, but merely enjoyed it. John didn't mind this as a principle: Sherlock appeared a bit of a public-school type, probably with a wealthy family, so why shouldn't he have a hobby - even if it was catching murderers?

Donovan seemed to think there was something perverse about his eagerness to foil criminals, which puzzled John. Surely, wanting to make the streets that bit safer, and wanting to apply oneself to a noble cause, such as fighting crime, wasn't a bad thing to do? It seemed almost gallant to the easily-impressed John.

However, as he shambled up the high street , John was beginning to sense, she hadn't seen him as the noble type. The background noise from the street swam through his head at the same time as his musings about Donovan's opinions on Sherlock, and how they were fairly harsh. Cabs ignoring him as they went past, the sound of puddles from yesterday's rain lapping up against the pavement, raucous shouting from within a kebab shop, a phone booth ringing eerily to his right . . .

He looked behind himself, quizzically staring at the phone booth as he shuffled away. He'd never heard one ringing outside of a movie before: this was the first time. He didn't know if you could even call a phone booth. It was clearly an accident; a wrong number. He turned back. It wasn't the _strangest thing_ that had happened to him today, and it wasn't the first _first _he'd had today, either.

He'd had more firsts in the past few days than even he knew, and there were more to come.

Donovan had added that one day, solving crimes wouldn't be enough. She'd said that one day, they'd all be standing over a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there. She'd said he was a psychopath, and what's more, she's said to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.

Well, frankly, it was a little melodramatic to John. While he sympathised with those Sherlock despised as adamantly as he did her, it was clear from the way she talked about him that the hatred and insults were mutual, not one-sided.

So what if he enjoyed fighting crime? It was a little worrying to John that perhaps, if he wanted to, Sherlock could commit the perfect crime. However, John considered him a stubborn man. He'd chosen which side of the law he wanted to operate on – well, at least which side he wanted to be _in favour of_, even if it meant he had to break the law to preserve it. John doubted, now he'd made his mind up, that he would change it.

It was just a very lucky thing that Sherlock Holmes had graced the law with his allegiance.

His thoughts were interrupted by another irritating ringing phone. He shot a glance at the offending contraption, which was whining at him from within an empty kebab shop. The owner had clearly gone out for a fag or something, and there were only one or two employees in the kitchen behind the counter. There were presently no customers.

Why, then, would ring a payphone at the front of the shop? . . . Yet again, John asked himself if it was actually possible to ring a payphone.

He walked a little faster, nervously eyeing each face he passed, every shop left behind, anticipating another phone call with no one to answer. He was starting to suspect, in his usual war-honed paranoia, that they were meant for him.

The next phone box he reached began to ring, and he made a decision: he would answer it. This was too much of a coincidence in his eyes. It was probably nothing, but he had to make sure. He had been so sure this day couldn't get any weirder . . .

He couldn't have been more wrong, as after tentatively plucking the phone from the hook and asking who was there in the strongest voice he could muster, a polite yet firm voice informed him of the location of several security cameras, which all turned to face him.

The voice instructed him afterwards, "Get in the car, Doctor Watson," with a vague sense of seemingly unwarranted authority, as a sleek, shiny black car pulled up smoothly beside the phone box.

Though slightly scared, John sighed, mainly disgruntled. He was fed up, tired, and he wanted to go home. Frankly, the mysterious goings on that he was dealing with at that moment were just a load of bother he could do without. He would have laughed at how incredibly British his attitude was if he hadn't been in such a serious situation.

However, he decided he would get into the car. Whoever was messing around with him obviously expected him to be scared, but they would be disappointed. He would front it out, and let them know firmly that he was not going to tolerate any of this dramatic bullshit.

He opened the car door, and got in. Smooth leather seats, completely black interior, chauffeur-driven . . . Attractive brunette woman sitting on the other side of the car.

They pulled away, the only light in the car filtering dully through its blackout windows, and shining out from the woman's Blackberry. She hadn't so much as looked up at John when he'd entered the car, and was tapping at an alarmingly fast rate on the Smartphone.

"Hi, I'm John," He told the woman, trying to engage her in some sort of conversation, and to gauge her response.

"Yeah, I know," She replied with a snigger; looking embarrassed for him, as if she thought he was adorable, without even looking up from her phone. Her eyes were wide as she answered, and she smirked too. She didn't stop typing.

"What's your name?" He asked her, persevering, though he didn't predict good results. He was beginning to appreciate just how pretty she really was.

"Umm . . . Anthea," She replied, taking her time to think about it: John could tell that wasn't just because she was busy on her phone. She hadn't taken so long to answer before, and John easily drew his own conclusions.

"Is that your real name?" He asked, looking past her and into the street. Through the window, he saw streets he didn't recognise, and cursed himself for being distracted by the woman for long enough to lose track of where he was. He'd _never_ have done that in his days as a soldier. He was getting rusty . . . He felt a small twinge of sadness pinch him on the inside.

She shook her head, pursing her lips, "No . . ." She told him, trailing off, and not volunteering any more information than that to him. He sighed with annoyance at being rejected so openly by such an attractive woman, wondering if the chauffeur had witnessed it too.

Her cocoa-brown eyes shone, and her olive complexion was lit up by the light from her phone. A few delicate strands of sleek hair hung over her face, and she flicked them idiosyncratically out of her eyes in a businesslike manner.

Finally, they arrived, though John couldn't have hazarded a guess as to where. He got out of the car without being prompted, into what looked like a large multi-storey car park. It was dank, and there were puddles of water all over the place.

It was totally deserted, but for a man whose silhouette he could make out. He was leaning on an umbrella, in front of a chair. John sighed, and made his way over to the man, as he supposed he was meant to, his cane making an echoing noise as it hit the ground with every step.

As he approached, the man's features became clearer to him: brown hair, combed; high forehead; prominent nose; peculiar, disingenuous smile gracing his aristocratic face, fairly plainly meant to unnerve him. Well, he would have to do a better job than that, John thought with a sudden internal flourish of confidence.

"Please take a seat, Doctor Watson," The man instructed him, with the same voice he'd heard down the crackling phone line. Slightly superior, posh: it fitted his appearance like a hand in a glove.

It didn't surprise him that the man knew his name: it hadn't surprised him when he'd used it on the phone originally, either, because he seemed to have everything worked out the way he wanted it. It wasn't a shock to John's calm mind that he would be prepared for this situation, even offering him a seat because of his leg.

Though, perhaps the seat was just a way of making John feel inferior by making him become physically lower down than the man. John thought this was mildly pathetic. .

"I'll stand, thanks," John grunted defiantly, not wasting an ounce of politeness on his new acquaintance.

The other man's fake, unpleasant smile intensified momentarily, as he took out a small, battered, leather-bound book. John would have suspected it was a diary, if not for the slightly sinister nature of the man. He wondered if it contained a variety of disagreeable secrets on many people – maybe even himself.

His doubts were brought to the forefront in a few second's time, with a question that set the tone for the whole conversation, starting an assault of personal questions that John wasn't quite sure he'd like to answer. The man had him, for the first time, slightly on the back foot as he asked,

"What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"


	5. Sergeant Sally Donovan

_**AN: Thanks for all the reviews! They're really essential to me to let me know I'm pointing you all in the right direction, and I've taken them into account when writing this chapter. One comment made was that someone didn't want me to drag it out too long, so while the next chapter will be detailed, it will also be the penultimate chapter.  
>Naturally, read and review as always! I promise that your questions will be cleared up by the end of the story- B. <strong>_

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><p>Gasping; a strained breath left his mouth as his eyes widened, his right palm pressed tight to his left forearm. The rush was instantaneous, but it didn't quite distract him from hearing Doctor Watson blunder ungraciously up the stairs, into the apartment. His eyes stared up, unseeing, glassy and vacant, at the ceiling for a moment.<p>

John entered, giving him a surprised and suspicious look, and craning to see what he was doing.

"Sherlock, is that-?" He began, alarmed.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock assured him, sighing and shutting his eyes. He didn't blame his flatmate for assuming the worst: he had, not so long ago, used more extreme methods to broaden his mind.  
>"Three of them?" John asked incredulously.<br>"It's a three patch problem! . . . Widens my range . . ." He muttered, not bothering to open his eyes; the meaning of the last words was impenetrable to John. He passed it off as another one of Sherlock's cryptic mind-games.

Sherlock was concentrating hard: searching his own mind, yes, but much more than that. He could see London; see it through other people's eyes, see different perspectives, see that which normal people never could. But, try as he might . . . There was no perpetrator. Not of this particular crime, anyway, though he knew that crimes were being committed this very second. They were all, without exception, dull. Especially in comparison with the irresistible, maddening problem at hand.

Frustrated, he suddenly zoned back in to the conversation.

"–a mark where her ring should have been. I suppose they took it off her. There was a faint tan-line, less tanned than the rest of her. I thought it might be because she uses sunbeds, and she wouldn't want to wear her ring on a sunbed – um, would she? I don't know a lot about these things, but – Sherlock?"

John was drawing his own conclusions. Sherlock liked that – as long as he was given the same information to work from as his colleague. Unfortunately, though, he didn't think much of John's theory.

"Erroneous. Sorry, you're wrong. But I suppose you can't be blamed, you didn't have all the facts," Sherlock told him, strangely apologetic. John guessed that he'd made a few incorrect calculations in his time, and so he was sympathetic.

"How can you be so sure I'm wrong? – All the facts? What did you see in the evidence locker?" He asked, still unconvinced of the fact he was wrong.

"The facts are as follows," Sherlock began to explain, "She has a faint tan-line because she's always removing the ring, which is evident from the ring itself, which I had the benefit of seeing. Shiny on the inside, dirty on the outside. The state of her marriage right there. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger! She's had a string of lovers, none of which knew about each other, and you're right, she _is_ smart,"

"I didn't say that!" John snapped, adding, "Just stop talking and listen for a minute, will you?" He was clearly frustrated, probably because he'd wanted Sherlock to congratulate him on his reasoning and for trying to help the sleuth in the case.

Sherlock saw no problem: he'd said sorry_ – sorry _that you're wrong. What more did people want from him? An apology, signed in triplicate, for each member of their extended family? So temperamental. He didn't understand. He thought he'd been _polite_. John didn't, obviously.

John paused, calming himself down, before going on: "Yes, Sherlock, she's intelligent, but . . . Well, a string of lovers? How did you know?" John begrudgingly asked, going back on his request that Sherlock be quiet.

The man hadn't opened his eyes yet. John was beginning to suspect that maybe he wasn't taking his job seriously, while people out there were losing their identities like forgotten small change down a drain.

"She'd never maintain the narrative of being single for all that time. I'd say she's been unhappily married for quite some years, and unfaithful for around 75% of that time," Sherlock answered coolly.

John nodded, conceding with a face that said '_fair enough_' that Sherlock was probably right, and he couldn't argue. Now for the bigger issue.

"Anyway, why did you text me? Nothing seems that urgent, to be honest with you. You're just lying about – why aren't you working on the case?"

"I _am_ working on the case. Oh, and I almost forgot. Could you send a text to that number?" Sherlock ordered, waving loosely in the direction of the coffee table beside him. John was still for a moment, his face the picture of disbelief.

"You brought me half way across London," He clarified, "To send a text?" His voice was calm but Sherlock knew he was angry. He thought he was being treated as sub-standard. Sherlock opened his eyes, and rolled them.

"Well I couldn't use mine, there's always a chance it'll be recognised," He pointed out, sounding bored. John looked angry, but Sherlock still couldn't quite understand why. He'd given a sound explanation for his actions, which was perfectly reasonable.

John stoically did what Sherlock said; grabbed the number, and slouched into the green faux-leather armchair, raising his eyebrows and bottling up his emotions until they subsided. He propped his cane up against the piece of furniture.

"Exactly these words, John – "_I have no use for the silver five pound coin you gave me. 22 Northumberland Street. Please collect."_

John keyed in the number, and then the dictated words, though they baffled him slightly. He didn't know who he was sending the text to, but he put his faith in Sherlock that it would help them solve the case.

"Have you done it?" Sherlock demanded, forming a steeple with his fingers.

"Yes, yes," John replied, sending the text. Suddenly, he remembered his earlier experience; the 'mysterious' man with the umbrella. He'd thought at the time that he'd never forget to tell Sherlock, and that it would be the first thing he mentioned. However, Sherlock had more pressing issues to deal with, and he'd inevitably let it slip his mind. He decided at that moment that he'd tell Sherlock about the encounter he'd had.

"I met a friend of yours earlier – well, actually, he called himself your arch enemy. I didn't even know people had arch enemies, not-"

"He offered you money to spy on me, didn't he? People usually do so with my associates. You didn't take it, did you?" It was less of a question than a statement.

John shook his head, looking slightly proud of himself. He considered himself a very upstanding, moral person, and he hoped this would be impressive to Sherlock. However, the younger man replied to the contrary:  
>"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time," Sherlock criticized, tutting.<p>

John sighed, shaking his head. "Anyway, who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet . . . And not my problem right now!" Sherlock sat up sharply, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa. He was about to tell John something, but the doctor spoke first.

"Hang on – what's that?" He asked, intrigued. He approached the pink canvas case, and eyed it suspiciously. He cursed himself for being so unobservant, and not noticing it earlier. Sherlock was sure to have noted that, and thought less of him for it.

Sherlock grinned internally, and answered.

"Jennifer Wilson's case," Sherlock replied simply and abruptly, and he tried again to speak. Again, John cut in first.  
>"Wait – why isn't this in the evidence locker? . . . How did you get this, Sherlock? And the phone number – who was that?" The rising panic in his voice indicated his raised suspicions. Sherlock would have to do some fast talking to win the doctor round: he was moral almost to the point of absurdity, and anything slightly suspect would easily make him anxious.<p>

Sherlock could hear the words Donovan had said to John; he could hear how she'd told John he'd be responsible for a corpse turning up in the morgue. He felt anger boil inside of inside him, that she'd corrupted his new potential friend's view of him.

"Now is probably the best time to point out I'm _not_ the one responsible for the amnesia, despite what Sergeant Donovan might think," He spat. He went on to explain his process of reasoning, which had led him to the case, and that the phone John had texted was Jennifer Wilson's own, in the hands of the perpetrator.

He was staring intently at the phone, when John's perplexed brain finally managed to help him form a sentence to sum what he'd said up:

"You think it's a _person_," He stated with the deepest of frowns, looking at Sherlock as if he were insane. "You think a _person_ can cause amnesia in eleven people . . . But . . . But that's, that's – it's mad, Sherlock!"

"That's a little hypocritical of you, John, if you don't mind my saying so," Sherlock muttered in a soft, low voice, looking up from his unblinking stare at the phone to afford John some eye contact. The former army doctor stared back, full of regret, and it was evident that what had been said had gotten through: he'd decided Sherlock was probably right.

As Sherlock and John finally broke one another's gaze, John's phone began to vibrate: a call from an unknown number. John went pale, as he stared at it. Sherlock, who had been waiting for this all along, smirked with joy.

It was _him_.

"What do you do if someone who was supposed to have forgotten everything – who you'd _made sure_ had forgotten everything – texted you something that only _they_ could know?" Sherlock asked in a calm voice, though it was fairly plain that he was extremely excited.

John shrugged, and the phone stopped vibrating. Sherlock leapt up, in the direction of his coat and scarf, and told John excitedly: "_You panic!_"

John hobbled along behind Sherlock, who swept into the Italian restaurant opposite 22 Northumberland Street with a sense of gratuitous importance and urgency. Thankfully, his arrogance this time seemed warranted, as the owner's eyes, unusually, lit up at the sleuth's appearance. John hadn't met a single other person who enjoyed his presence as much as he did, and now he had met someone who enjoyed it _more_.

"Ah, Sherlock! My best customer!"  
>"Angelo – always a pleasure," Sherlock uttered the platitude, but seemed genuinely happy to see him. The man in question, a jolly-looking, portly Italian gentleman with a smart shirt and a greasy apron, beamed from ear to ear.<p>

"I got Angelo off the hook on a rather nasty double homicide, by proving he was in another part of London at the time, carjacking," Sherlock explained to John, as they both sat down at the table by the window. From his seat, Sherlock made sure he had a prime view of the location they were staking out, without making his presence unnaturally clear to anyone who would turn up there.

"How about a meal, on the house, for you and your date?" He proposed to Sherlock, and then turned to John enthusiastically: "– This man! If it wasn't for him, I'd have gone to jail!"  
>"You did go to jail, Angelo," Sherlock reminded him, looking dubious but still genuinely friendly.<p>

"I'll go and get a candle for the table – more romantic, eh?" Angelo decided, ignoring Sherlock's comment with another wide smile. John frowned, and froze as he realised what had been said, trying to get the Italian's attention again.

"I'm - I'm not his date!" He tried to clarify loudly, though he was ignored, as Angelo was already walking away. He turned to Sherlock to try and get some backup, but the younger man was looking out of the window with an attentive expression. His friendly face had long since slipped, and he was staring unblinkingly at the address he'd told the perpetrator to go to. John knew it was useless to try and get him to pay attention to what had just come to pass, and sighed in annoyance.

The food came, along with the candle. John ate appreciatively despite the 'romantic' flickering flame, having almost no energy left after his long and complicated day. Oddly, the later he was staying up, the more invigorated he felt: the excitement, he supposed, was doing wonders for him.

Sherlock ignored his dinner totally, one hand clasped in the other, facing the window. His left hand kept rubbing his face in heady contemplation, and John thought that if he didn't break the tension, he'd start biting his nails or pacing.

"So . . . Do you have a girlfriend?" John asked, as a matter of politeness, making conversation.

"What? No, not really my area . . ." He told John, a little taken aback by the question at first, but then dismissing the notion. John nodded slowly, continuing to eat. He wiped his mouth, and calmly yet cautiously tried again.  
>"Boyfriend? That's fine, by the way-"<br>"I know it's fine," Sherlock said bluntly, eyes flicking briefly to John for the first time, but still distracted by the outside and not paying full attention to the conversation at hand.

John nodded again, letting the tense moment pass by, still unsuccessful in igniting meaningful conversation with his impassive friend. He tried a third time.

"So . . . You're unattached, then. Just like me?" He trailed off, fiddling with his napkin.

Sherlock began to nod, but then did a double take, looking at John for the second time since they'd sat down: he was looking down, and not making eye contact. Sherlock took a deep breath, and began his rehearsed speech.

"John, while I'm flattered by your interest, I consider myself married to my work, and – You were only enquiring out of politeness," He realised, turning back to the window, looking somewhat mortified. As long as he lived, he assumed he would never understand social cues. Well, not without a little help.

John nodded, feeling embarrassed for him, but neutralising the misunderstanding by adding, "Honest mistake – I was a bit, um . . . Ambiguous, anyway. . . But, you know it's fine - it's all _fine_," He finished with a smile.

Sherlock nodded mechanically once, and John knew he was lost again. But another thought crossed John's mind immediately, though he hated to think of himself pestering his friend when he was trying to work.

"What if he doesn't turn up?" John hypothesised.

"Oh, he'll turn up," Sherlock guaranteed him, "That's the frailty of genius – it _always _requires an audience. Hence the calling card," He added, and John understood, thinking of his own situation.

Yeah, he thought. Genius did need an audience. He looked doubtfully at the consulting detective, and shook his head at his lack of self awareness.

He could've sworn he saw Sherlock Holmes' candlelit features form a slight smirk.

John sighed, and after a while of waiting patiently, decided that it wouldn't be awful of him to just ask one more question. The self-proclaimed 'best detective in London' would still notice a bloody super-villain knocking about outside if he was talking to John, too. The guy was bound to stick out like a sore thumb.

"He'll blend in . . . I don't know how, but–" Sherlock shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, seeming to inwardly chastise himself for not having solved the case, rather harshly in John's eyes.

"Come on!" He told himself, and began to repeat the facts again out loud: "– they were all taken from different locations, nothing in common, regular pattern, no widespread features . . . All taken in plain sight, according to eyewitnesses who saw them last. Think! Who do we pass every day? Who do we trust completely without thinking about it? Who hunts in a crowd . . .?" Sherlock asked, though it was merely a mutter, and John knew he wasn't being questioned. The consulting detective was openly talking to himself.

John didn't know this, but unless he hadn't been completely comfortable with him, and completely at his widths end with the case, he would have never done that in front of _anyone_. He didn't need more rumours that he was insane going around.

"Sergeant Donovan-" John mentioned tentatively, looking worried for Sherlock.  
>"Oh, come on, John!" Sherlock hissed, "If you really credited her opinion, you wouldn't be here. As it is, I said <em>dangerous<em>, and here you – _Oh!_" The surprised utterance at the end of his speech was low and drawn out, and John saw a flash of excitement in his eyes.

John looked out of the window, glancing at what had thrilled his friend so suddenly. He felt himself go pale, as he stared at a vehicle parked outside 22 Northumberland Street, presumably harbouring in the backseat a . . . Well, someone very evil indeed.

It was the last nail in the coffin of Sgt. Donovan's belief that the police could solve the case on their own, without Holmes' help. Single-handedly, he'd summoned the perpetrator right to their front door, ready for the taking. She was wrong: while he may be a little socially inept, he was the best detective in London, and John thought probably the whole country.

Sherlock Holmes had perceived from the window of the restaurant a silver, '08 reg. London taxi.


	6. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade

_**AN: This will, if all goes to plan, be the penultimate chapter of this fanfiction, if you**__**'re interested in how long it will go on for. I hope to pack a lot of action into these chapters, with many questions being answered! Also, as a point of interest, I have had to switch out my old beta, sharkbyonly, and replace her with thatcelestiallight (a friend from Tumblr) for this chapter, due to the unavailability of the former and the extreme kindness of the latter. Thanks for hanging in there and supporting me, and for reviewing so far. Keep the reviews coming! Thanks a lot – B. **_

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><p>Slamming the door behind them, Sherlock and John threw themselves against the hallway wall next to the staircase. Panting from the chase, they took a few seconds to recover, looking at each other in disbelief of what they'd just done. They burst out laughing.<p>

"That," John began with an exhausted but jubilant smile, "was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done!"

"Well, you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quipped. John gave him an odd look, though still smiling. For a tense moment, Sherlock thought he'd said the wrong thing, and his smile froze on his face before the former army doctor replied: "It wasn't just me!" with a tone of mock-offence.

He didn't really care what Sherlock thought about the war: 'each to their own' and all that. The sleuth was fighting his own personal battles with criminals back home, though, so he could hardly protest that he was a lover, not a fighter. Indeed, John found it hard to imagine Sherlock loving anyone at all. The prospect seemed distant and alien, if not downright impossible.

Sherlock looked mildly relieved at his response, and was almost fully recovered from the run halfway across London they'd just participated in. They'd been chasing the silver cab he'd spotted outside 22 Northumberland Street, eagerly pursuing what they'd believed to be the criminal in the back of it.

However, their efforts – while enjoyable, especially for the doctor – had been fruitless. Upon opening the cab door (waving a stolen police ID Sherlock had taken from DI Lestrade) and questioning the occupant, they'd discovered the man was American. He'd only just arrived in London from the States, and so couldn't possibly be the perpetrator. It appeared that, even after their thrilling chase, the cab had merely slowed down near the specified address by coincidence.

Sherlock had thought it sensible to try and dampen the American's suspicions with the line '_Welcome to London!_ '. John had found it funny; the American less so. He'd fetched a nearby police officer, meaning that they'd had to make another quick getaway, and run home to Baker Street.

Well, it was Sherlock's home, but John was still undecided as to whether or not he'd move in with the consulting detective. This changed soon after they'd arrived in the hall.

"So, you'll be moving into Baker Street and giving up your flat, then?" Sherlock mentioned in a way he'd have liked to sound offhand, though John could hear the fervent desire to make a flatmate and friend in his voice. He didn't understand why Sherlock still didn't think they were friends. Perhaps Sherlock was less familiar with the concept of friendship than even he'd suspected.

"What? Says who?" John asked, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock's presumption.

"Says the man at the door," the sleuth replied with a genuine yet sly smile, looking past John to the front door, which had just been knocked on. John frowned, but took the bait, slowly approaching the door. He opened it, and to his surprise, the beaming face of Angelo smiled up at him.

"Sherlock texted me – he thought you'd be needing this," He explained. In his hand was John's silver cane. With a cold wave of remembrance, John realised that he'd left the cane behind at the restaurant. He'd run for a good half hour, looping around backstreets and racing along Sherlock's crazy alternative routes, all without a single twinge of pain in his leg.

Sherlock had been right. The limp was psychosomatic. He'd completely forgotten it was even an issue for that sweet half hour; just like the good old days, before. . . Before he'd been shot, yes, but also before his recovery.

He thanked Angelo and shut the door, returning to where Sherlock was leaning against the wall, watching him closely with a mischievous expression.

He handled the cane, his hand fitting into its usual position, but the walking aid felt cold and alien; useless to him now. He knew, for certain, that his leg was merely his own fault. But overall, he knew that Sherlock had in some way manipulated him into this realisation by making him run the most complicated route around London as possible. He'd been proving a point.

Usually, this kind of manipulation – John being controlled without his knowledge, or consent – angered him severely, but this time. . . He was secretly pleased, after realising that his new flatmate knew him better than he knew himself.

Because that was what he was now: his new flatmate. Sherlock had his answer, but he'd known all along, only needing to prove it to John himself. He would stay with him; John would move into 221b Baker Street.

He eventually went to answer Sherlock's question and confirm that he'd move in, as he stood the cane by the door, where he'd know it was if he needed it again. He was confident in himself, though, that if he'd run for half an hour today, he'd be able to persevere his way through walking about the flat or the street. He would be hard on himself. He didn't have trouble with this in the first place, but he figured that what didn't kill him only made him stronger – or hurt more. Either one.

However, before he could tell Sherlock his answer, his flatmate pricked up his ears, becoming rigid and tense. Pale eyes flicked about, looking up the staircase all of a sudden and then to 221c. The smile was wiped off his face, and he called out, "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sherlock, the mess they've made!" The kindly woman burst out of her apartment at his call, apparently reluctant to show herself until she was sure John and Sherlock weren't talking about something private. John sighed a little at this, but was still curious as to what she'd meant.

"I tried – I tried to stop them, but-"  
>"It wasn't your place, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called down to her as he skipped at great speed up the stairs, clearly anxious to get into the flat at once. John's eyebrows knitted, and he stepped swiftly up the stairs his flatmate had just leapt up three or more at a time.<p>

His leg still throbbed with pain as he stepped, like the muscles in it had been eaten away; atrophied, and he was trying to grow them back. He was a stoical man, though, and so was used to repressing emotional pain; physical pain was no different.

"What's this? You can't just break into my flat!" Sherlock bellowed in Lestrade's general direction while spinning around and looking at the police and forensic officers that the flat was crawling with, all examining his personal effects as if they were evidence in his own murder.

The DI himself was sitting open-legged on the sofa, his arms splayed across its top, and generally treating it as if it belonged to him. He knew it was the best way to annoy Sherlock. Each was equally vexed by the other, as they locked in aggressive eye contact.

"Sherlock, we told you that you could work on this case, but you can't go off on your own or withhold evidence!" Lestrade pointed out, indicating Jennifer Wilson's suitcase behind him, which two forensics were examining and packing the clothes from into evidence bags.

"You still can't come into my flat – what's your justification for this?" He spat, quivering with anger. John, who arrived behind him, could sense that one of the things Sherlock hated more than anything else in the world was people _touching his possessions_. He'd known a guy in the army like that; he hadn't lasted long – both in the dormitories shared with others and in the army at all.

John was fairly angry, too, though he hadn't moved into the flat yet. He hadn't fetched any of his things and brought them to 221b yet, aside from one very important thing that was currently residing under his coat, tucked into the back of his jeans.

Lestrade shrugged, holding his hands up in the air and trying not to smile, as he told the consulting detective: "It's a drugs bust!"

"What? I withhold evidence, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock hissed. He narrowed his eyes and took a protective step forward, though any hope of protecting the debris he called his possessions was long gone.

"It stops being pretend if we find anything," Lestrade mentioned, making Sherlock's face twist into a look of reticent frustration and surprising John, who was appalled by this suggestion.

"What? No – this guy? A junky? Don't make me laugh! I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational'-"

Sherlock swept round; the look on his face clear for John to read.

John. You probably want to stop talking now.

It was almost too clear what he meant, but they still stared at one another, John's brow puckering ever so slightly as brown eyes met frosted-glass blue; Sherlock moved in closer until John could feel his angry breath on his face. The minute movement of the muscle below Sherlock's right eye, narrowing it slightly, was enough to make John's face contort with incredulity.

"No!" he spluttered.

"What?" Sherlock retorted.  
>You?<br>"Shut up!" Sherlock dismissed, turning away sharply.

A wheedling whine of a voice crawled into everyone's ears at that moment, and Sherlock's dislike of it – and its owner – was immediately obvious to everyone in the room, including John.

"Yeah, never mind that! According to you – Lestrade told me, seeing as you couldn't be _bothered_ to come to the crime scene and actually speak to me yourself – the case would be with someone who knew why she'd forgotten everything, and we found it in the flat of our favourite _psychopath_!"

"Anderson!" Sherlock addressed the man directly, as you would someone who had perhaps murdered your family, "What are you doing here? I thought I'd successfully avoided seeing you during this case, but it turned out I was unfortunately mistaken. And I'm _not_ a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research!"

"Oh, I _volunteered _to take part in this!" Anderson clarified with an edge of malice in his voice, snapping a disposable glove onto his hand, in order to help search the kitchen, in a way that made the consulting detective's skin crawl. There was mutual disgust in the faces of both men. The conflict was getting to John, but thankfully Lestrade cut in before more insults or slights could be exchanged.

"Yeah, well, a lot of these people aren't strictly _on_the drugs squad, but they're very keen," Lestrade informed Sherlock, who paced up and down, eyes frantically moving from one member of the 'volunteer ' group to the other.

He was on the verge of a raging panic attack, as he noticed Donovan poking around in his cupboards, and holding a jar in puzzlement: "Are these human eyes?" she asked, in a mocking tone.

"It's an experiment!" Sherlock shouted at her, his usual barely disguised contempt for her replaced by outright resentment. "And I'm clean," He asserted loudly, for all to hear. "So's the flat. . . You've made progress on Rachel," He said to the DI. Again, he didn't ask. It was clear he'd figured it out.

Lestrade himself knew that Sherlock would never work with him again if he'd pulled a stunt like this without any form of excuse or lead for him to work on.

"Yeah, 'Rachel' was Jennifer Wilson's daughter – but she died fourteen years ago. Technically, she was never alive, because-"

"She had a miscarriage. . ." The sleuth finished the DI's sentence, perceptibly working out what he was getting at. "But why write it on the floor while you're dying?" He paused for a second, holding his head in closed-eyed contemplation.

He suddenly pointed at Anderson, and told him: "Before you saying anything, Anderson, she didn't merely _think_ about her, she scratched her name with her fingernails into the wooden floorboards. It would have taken time, it would have hurt. So please don't blame my reluctance to see the note as a fleeting thought of her daughter on my sociopathic tendencies," he snapped.

"What? I wasn't going to say anything! Honestly, Lestrade, he's insane – paranoid, definitely, and-"

"Your observations are neither accurate nor as funny as you think they are, Anderson, so please keep them to yourself while we try, despite your efforts, to solve the case, hmm?" Sherlock growled at him, his fists flying to his sides.

John raised his eyebrows, wondering how often he'd have to get seriously angry with someone before he too could produce the same calibre of cutting speeches as Sherlock could. He placed the bet at several years.

Sherlock pouted in his general direction, as if to tell him to stay out of it, which was a little strange, as John would never enter the fray unnecessarily.

Sherlock saw Anderson's aggravated intake of breath, ready to rekindle the argument, and then Lestrade's warning glance to him that if he did, he would be thrown out and miss out on all the fun if they did find drugs. He found this a little rude.

"I can't think," Sherlock muttered to himself, "I can't - she's just a blank canvas, I can't be expected to-"  
>"Your deductions! Can't you make a few of them from her clothes, or does the magic not work when there isn't a dead body around?" Sgt. Donovan crowed, and he resisted the urge to let his vicious tongue loose on her as he'd done with Anderson.<p>

He ruffled his hair, grabbing clumps of it as he paced rapidly up and down, with the extra pressure on his shoulders that if he didn't work out who _Rachel_ was soon, the team rifling through his possessions would carry on to their heart's content which, as none of them took favourably to the self-proclaimed sociopath, was likely to be a lengthy search-and-ridicule session.

What did it matter to them what he got up to behind closed doors? He solved their cases, he did their jobs for them, what else did they want from him? He couldn't help his need to conduct experiments at home. Without them, he could almost _feel_ his brain rotting.

"Okay, everybody shut up! Don't move, don't speak! Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!" Sherlock cried suddenly, throwing his hands into the air, shaking with frustration and adrenaline.

". . . They're only herbal soothers, I swear, they can't take them off me, they-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock waved her away without a second thought, and she left, flustered, with a sympathetic look from John apologising for his companion's behaviour.

"Do as he says, now! Anderson, face the other way," Lestrade ordered loudly, realising that Sherlock was being serious, and that he might actually have a shot at figuring what was going on right now if everyone just let him. Nobody moving and speaking, as well as Anderson's pride, was a small sum to pay for a break in this case and the eventual public feeling of security that would develop when it was solved.

"What, my face is _putting you off_?" Anderson objected in disbelief.

"Turn your back, _now_!" Lestrade said fiercely. Anderson unwillingly obliged, grumbling to himself.

John had stopped paying attention a few minutes ago to the arguments between the police officers, and had begun to look concernedly at his laptop, which was open on the desk. What if they'd hacked his laptop? The thing was password protected, but even so, it had information and details and scans of discharge forms that he'd rather remained unseen and forgotten forever, if possible.

Anxiously, he slipped towards the laptop despite Sherlock's order of stillness, needing peace of mind before he could comply with the instruction. He had a quick look at the screen: it wasn't even logged in yet, which was a load off his mind.

Subtly, he glanced round at his flatmate, who had been deep in uneasy, closed-eyed thought when he'd made a pass for the laptop. He hoped he hadn't been noticed and wasn't going to be on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's terrible barrages of personal slights.

However, when he turned round, Sherlock wasn't angry, or mad at him. Something more unsettling graced his eyes: the sight of a peculiar look from his friend, involving narrowed eyes and the twitching of the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock pointed at John for a second, nodding vigorously, before turning to Lestrade and saying quietly, "That's it . . . That's_ it_!"

Excitement built in his tones, as he responded to Lestrade's obligatory request for an explanation:  
>"Rachel! . . . Don't you see? <em>Rachel<em>!" He proclaimed, holding his hands out in front of him, shaking them to emphasise the name a little more. Again, blank expressions met his gaze.

"Look at you! You're all so vacant! . . . _Rachel_ is not a name. Rachel is a password," He said quickly, whisking past John and to his laptop, which he logged into, guessing the password immediately. He made a note to change it after it had been used, and to monitor what Sherlock was doing with it while he used it. He wouldn't let him at the files with the discharge forms . . . He didn't have it in him to allow that, for _anyone_.

He typed in a web address, as Lestrade asked: "A password for _what_?" annoyed at Sherlock for only sharing part of the information he had with him, just like he'd done with the suitcase, as well as many times before, and just as he was sure he would do again. He always liked to be one step ahead. Of everyone.

"John, hand me the tag from the suitcase," Sherlock commanded, but John didn't gripe about being ordered about. He simply did as he was told, in the knowledge that perhaps, he was actively helping to prevent another shell of a person's former self from becoming the best version of their personality they could possibly be. He didn't want another Jennifer Wilson.

Sherlock typed the email address into the website it corresponded to, and announced, "And all together now, the password is . . ."

"Rachel. Right, whatever – we can see her emails. How's that going to help us with actually solving the case?" Anderson butted in.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock advised him absent-mindedly, not really concentrating on his petty feud but on the website he was on. "Smartphones, such as the one Jennifer Wilson no doubt has – she's modern, mid-thirties and has a job in the media after all – have a GPS system, which means you can track them if you've lost them, which means we can locate the phone."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something with a confused look, but John assured him, "We know the perpetrator has the phone."

"The perpetrator? . . . Surely you mean someone who can help us understand these, these serial amnesia cases – an eyewitness, perhaps? . . . Right?" Lestrade asked doubtfully, wondering if they were being serious.

"Don't be stupid, Lestrade, there's a single perpetrator," Sherlock corrected him.

There was a long pause, in which Donovan and Anderson exchanged looks of hate and doubt of the sleuth, and Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, and back again.

"Not good?"Sherlock asked John.

Bit not good, yeah.

Sherlock sighed in frustration that no one would believe him, waiting for the GPS signal to load. Something was irritating him at the back of his brain, and it wasn't just Anderson bleating from the kitchen, "Do you see it now? Insane!"

"Sherlock, your cab's here!" Mrs. Hudson called lightly from the stairwell.  
>"I didn't order one, Mrs. Hudson!" he called back, tapping his fingers together while he waited impatiently. He swept up from the chair with annoyance, recommencing his pacing, and John took over his post of waiting at the computer.<p>

Lestrade sighed, but watched the computer too.

"Sherlock, he's rather insistent! Says he won't go away until he's seen you!" Mrs. Hudson called again, approaching from the stairs. The incessant infuriation at the back of his mind was growing louder as he deliberated in frenzy over the problem at hand. It was like it was creating friction, which was heating up his mind gradually until he considered the possibility he would explode.

Surely, he could figure something about this out! The identity was a push. . . But perhaps _how_ the perpetrator managed to take them all? How he'd managed to take them from a crowd; in plain sight; in front of eyewitnesses who now remembered nothing despite indisputably, with CCTV evidence, being there. . .

Who do we trust that we don't even know?

Who hunts amongst a crowd?

The aggravation in the back of his head had now reached fever pitch, to the point where he was convinced that other people in the room might be able to hear it, like a whistling kettle; he imagined for a frantic moment that steam might protrude from his ears with the heat the provocation was causing his brain to experience.

It wasn't Donovan's shallow thoughts; it wasn't Anderson's bitching and moaning within his own brain; it wasn't Lestrade's fantasising about having a cigarette; neither was it Mrs. Hudson's fretting over her herbal soothers counting as a Class C drugs; nor the forensics' growing boredom and internal resignation that they wouldn't find any drugs in his flat, disappointingly.

It wasn't even the sad, lonely thoughts of a man rejected because of his special, unique biological makeup from the only life he ever felt he could live. Though that never failed to make him slightly frustrated, it never gave him bother like this: after all, he'd shown John that he could be at home. London was its own form of battlefield, but one he could make a noticeable difference in when he walked alongside Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly, he found himself backtracking through his evening with John, and their misadventures and triumphs. . . But the reversal stopped when he reached the meal at Angelo's; when he reached the part where the man they'd thought was the perpetrator arrived. . . He arrived by. . .

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a dark figure in the doorway, standing just behind Mrs. Hudson. His face was cloaked in shadow, rendering him anonymous, though Sherlock knew anonymity was never hard for him to find in the first place. There was something totally wrong, abnormal, and almost frightening about the figure, but Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it: this, too, was enough to make him unnerved.

The figure moved a calloused, rough hand past his identification and licence, down to his pocket and reached for something inside it. Sherlock was transfixed, and questions from the other occupants in the room were muffled and pointless, as if heard by him from many leagues beneath the surface of water.

If it were indeed water he had submerged himself in when he'd made the decision to deal with the man alone, he was going in deeper and deeper, until no one in the room was at his level, save the man whose pocket had just produced a Smartphone with a pink cover.

He still couldn't work out what was wrong with the man, and what gave him the extra sinister level that tipped him over the edge; that made Sherlock feel genuinely affronted by his presence.

Sherlock's BlackBerry chirruped at him, indicating that with a single click of a button, the man had texted him: 'COME WITH ME.'

The man turned slowly and walked downstairs, leaving Sherlock aghast in his wake, but accepting what he now had to do.

He came closer to the surface, as he heard John's confused voice from above it: "It says it's here, Sherlock . . . At 221 Baker Street . . ." John was saying, sounding confused but also exasperated. "I'll load it again-" He decided quickly, imagining that there had been some sort of mistake. Sherlock knew better, but wouldn't share, other than a quick thought.

Keep your gun loaded, John.

"Good idea. I'm just going outside for a bit of fresh air," Sherlock replied blithely, and grabbed his coat and scarf. He intended to follow the man outside, and he didn't want to be followed at all.

"You can't just leave in the middle of this! We need your help! You can't just take off!" Lestrade protested, but Sherlock already had his coat and scarf on.  
>"There's nothing I can do but wait for the GPS to work properly, like you're all doing. I'll be back shortly. I suppose your invading my privacy didn't do much to help my <em>insanity<em>," he mocked, and Lestrade sighed as he glared at Anderson for sabotaging his best - yet temperamental – detective.

He'd got away. Speeding down the staircase, he pulled on his black leather gloves, and slowly he came closer to realising what it was that made the man so much more awful that he already seemed: what scared Sherlock the most about him.

He burst out onto the front step of 221 Baker Street and into the cold night air. The sight that confronted him as the shiny black door slammed shut behind him was a chilling, yet somehow exciting, one.

There, in front of the same silver cab John had offered to memorise the registration number of as they chased it earlier, was a short man in his early sixties. He had silver hair, hidden beneath his grey flat cap, and wore a threadbare grey knitted jacket and equally cheap grey trousers to match. His shoes hadn't been replaced in a long time, but were sturdy, and obviously – as was plain from looking at the rest of them – not bought for appearances' sake.

The car, the hair, the _coin_ . . . This was turning out to be quite the study in silver, Sherlock mused.

He took a step forward, and began his dialogue with the cab driver.  
>"I didn't order a cab," he informed the man.<br>"Doesn't mean you don't need one," he replied simply, his Cockney voice ringing out in the cold night air across the concrete pavement. Sherlock smirked, unable to contain his excitement for the situation.

He was here. He was _actually_ _here_. . .

"You're the one who did it, aren't you? Not your passenger earlier. _You're_ the perpetrator . . . _You_ make people forget," Sherlock confirmed.  
>"That's right – no one ever suspects the cabbie, do they? We're just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer. I'm surprised most of us don't branch out," he joked humourlessly, dropping his Hs and looking slightly amused. He added, "And I don't make them forget, Mr. Holmes. I speak to them, and they <em>choose<em> to forget."

Sherlock didn't know what to make of this. He didn't know what he meant, and he _couldn't _know, either. He started to feel a little sick, as a wave of realisation slowly began to ease through his body, from the toes upwards.

"What's to stop me from calling upstairs and having the Detective Inspector arrest you right now?" Sherlock asked, fronting it out, and pretending that nothing was wrong.

"You could do that, if you wanted to. I'll tell you something else: I wouldn't run. I'd wait; I'd go down for it. . . But I'll tell you one thing. If you hand me over to the police, I will never, _ever_ tell you what I said to those people."

He turned around, and walked to the driver's side of his cab, getting in as Sherlock watched him blankly.

"What would I have to do?" he asked bluntly, looking in through the open window of the cab. "If I wanted to find out what you said – what would I have to do?"

"Come and take a ride with me," the cabbie replied.  
>"What, so you can make me forget, too?" Sherlock asked dubiously.<br>"No, no, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to talk to you, and then you're going to _choose_ to forget."

Sherlock weighed his options, but knew from the start that his cards were marked. He'd decided as soon as he'd followed the cabbie out of the flat that he'd go wherever he took him.

He opened the cab door, and climbed in, all the while the realisation about what made the cabbie so hideous dawning on him. It wasn't the amnesia that he'd somehow caused, nor the fact that he'd just abducted him, nor the fact that he had been allowed to be a cab driver all this time while stealing people's lives away from them.

No, none of those were the reasons he was scared of the cabbie whose licence indicated was ironically named Jeff Hope. What scared Sherlock the most about the cabbie was that every time he looked at him, he drew a blank.

For the first time since his father's death when he was sixteen, he was unable to read someone's mind.


	7. Mr Jefferson Hope

_**AN: Hmm, it's a bit of a shame I can't reply to Kyer's review directly. However, they did raise a valid point, and I have written a response to it here for anyone who's concerned about my 'direct lifting' of plots, events, dialogue etc. from the actual episode of Sherlock 'A Study In Pink', which you can all look at and comment on if you want. super sonic sonar radar . tumblr _**.com/post/9329880295/kyer-2011-08-23-chapter-1-i-do-hope-you-are-letting (remove the spaces on the first bit :D)**_  
>Anyway, back to the story. This is the final chapter of A Study In Silver! Thanks a lot to everyone who's complimented me on this story and reviewed it in any way: all of it is useful to help shape me as a writer and my story. This was my first ever Sherlock fanfic, so thanks for the support! Enjoy this last chapter, though I'll be sad to let it go! - B.<strong>_

* * *

><p>"The silver five pound coin . . . I know you're <em>desperate<em> to tell me,"

It was a question, and they both knew it. The cabbie's sneering smile broadened, as he stared at the disgusted-looking sleuth. Sherlock was having a little trouble with the white noise he hadn't heard for a good sixteen years; it was the sound that came with the sickening withdrawal of being unable to read someone's mind.

He looked into old eyes, framed by ageing skin, and saw nothing but hatred and possible insanity. No obvious motive, no life story. No unhappy ending. Just the same thing as everyone else saw. A bitter, twisted old man with a gun; not his thoughts, dreams or desires. Aside from possibly making him, Sherlock Holmes, forget his entire life, that was.

"Nice touch, wasn't it? Thought you'd appreciate that. Not that it was _for_ you, though I was warned about you,"

"Warned? . . . By who?" Sherlock asked, confused.  
>"The same person that's shielding me from you right now," The cabbie answered, looking calmly delighted that Sherlock didn't understand. "But you don't get it yet, do you? Maybe when I explain – you wanted to know about the coin. Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you now, is there? After all, you won't remember it later,"<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. Obviously, it's your calling card. Lestrade didn't want to mention it to me, but he found them on the other bodies. He thought it was irrelevant. Not his finest hour, though not his worst either, I'll say,"

"Do many people like you, Mr. Holmes? Snooping around inside their minds, making yourself comfortable around their secrets . . . Or don't they know?"

Sherlock remained tight-lipped, unable to meet the cabbie's eyes.

"They don't, do they? Afraid you'll be treated like a freak? Don't worry, though. I know. That's enough. We could've been friends, if things had been different. You me, and my protector. We'd have been unstoppable . . . Shame that things didn't work out, isn't it? Funny old world, eh?"

Sherlock's eyes looked up, but he didn't lift his face; he stared at the cabbie from under his brow, beginning to get a little angry. So, he did what he did best: he reasoned.

"It's your calling card. Good choice: virtually undetectable. It'd just look like any other coin unless you looked at it closely. It's a five pound coin, circa the Queen's Silver Jubilee, 1977. You would've been in your early twenties. I could see from the picture in your cab that you have kids, and the photo had aged appropriately, so you had children early. However, the wife was perceptibly cut out of the picture – if she'd died, she would still be there, but she wasn't. So, your wife no longer loves you, you don't get to see your children . . . Estranged father,"

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! He said you were good," The cabbie congratulated him, though all traces of positivity had drained from his face, he was now affronted. He hadn't counted on Sherlock's deductions, even without his powers, being so intrusive into his personal life.

"Who is he? The one you keep mentioning? Don't be coy, it's obvious you want to tell me about him," Sherlock told him coldly.

The cabbie narrowed his eyes, and his sly smile returned.  
>"You got yourself a fan, Mr. Holmes. I have to say, I've been on your website 'The Science Of Deduction'. Great stuff, loved it! So does your fan, obviously,"<p>

"Fan? How can I have a fan? And how is he protecting you?" Sherlock was puzzled, and frustrated with how little he'd deduced so far. Come on! He reminded himself that if he got out of this, he would have to practise his non-telepathic deduction skills, as they'd regressed ever so slightly over the years with the progression of his ability. They were passable, and certainly better than everyone else he'd ever encountered; still they weren't enough when it mattered, situations such as this.

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes," The cabbie dismissed.  
>"I'm really not," Sherlock snorted, suddenly more self-aware than he'd been in quite some time. He knew he valued himself highly, and he knew he was anything <em>but<em> modest when it came to his work. That's why he was the number one detective in London, without a shadow of a doubt, in his mind. However, it was all meretricious if he couldn't work his way out of this situation.

"Now, the coin," Sherlock insisted with a hard, low voice. They locked eyes once more, and the cabbie's eyes lingered for a second, before he began to speak.

"6th February, 1977. The Queen's Silver Jubilee. It was the last time that I was really, _properly_ happy. Have you ever felt truly happy, Mr. Holmes? I don't think so. I bet you get bored, a smart fella like you. Always looking for the next fix . . . I was like that when I was younger, but not that day.  
>I'd been married for a couple of years, and I had two children – you saw them in the picture in the car. We were all so <em>happy<em> . . . I can barely remember what it was like, but enough so that it makes me want to die because I'll never feel like that again," He explained, shaking his head with a bitter facial expression. Sherlock was half-interested in his story, but was making deductions again.

"You weren't getting enough attention. So, after about five victims, you started to put a silver five pound coin, issued on the Silver Jubilee 1977, the last time you were happy before your inevitable divorce – you married young, so it was more likely than not – into the pockets of your victims. So it had sentimental value, it wasn't just a random object chosen because it might be ignored. You're less ingenious than I'd suspected," Sherlock sighed. The cabbie looked on the verge of anger.

He thrust his hand into his pocket, and staring at Sherlock the entire time, produced a five pound coin just like the one Sherlock had found amongst Jennifer Wilson's possessions.

"Difficult to find these days, these are," The cabbie informed him, holding it in the palm of his hand and watching it glint in the white light, "But I think I can bare to part with it – this one's yours, Mr. Holmes," He flicked it over to the sleuth, and it span in the air. Sherlock caught it with one gloved hand, snatching it out of thin air without even looking. His serious expression didn't falter as he slipped it into his pocket, but his eyes flicked to it for a second. He ignored the creeping doubt; the suspicion that he was, indeed, becoming just another victim.

He fronted it out with sarcasm, smiling in an obviously disingenuous manner, and drawling, "I'll treasure it," The cabbie ignored this, and carried on with his spiel.

"This is my favourite bit. I think you'll like this bit," the cabbie told him, with a crooked smile. From his pocket, he revealed a small bottle with a metallic silver lid, containing a single pill flecked with grey. Intrigued, the sleuth stared at it keenly.

Then, with his other hand, the cabbie took out another silver-topped bottle from his other pocket. It contained a pill identical to the one he'd just pulled out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows for a second, before restoring neutrality on his face. The cabbie was prompted by his obviously-forced display of disinterest to explain.

"It's a game . . . Two pills. A good pill, and a bad one. You take the good pill, nothing happens. You take the bad pill, _you_ go to sleep. _Someone else_ wakes up, with no memories. You aren't _you_ anymore, and I'll be long gone,"

Sherlock stared spitefully at the cabbie, looking unimpressed with his choice.  
>"It's a fifty-fifty chance of me forgetting everything. I see no game here," He told him flatly, distinctly blasé.<p>

"Ah, but here's the twist. Mr. Holmes! . . . Whichever pill you choose, I'll take the other one. You're not playing the probabilities, Mr Holmes. You're playing me. I could fall asleep; you could get away and call your friends at Scotland Yard,"

"They're not my friends," He replied sharply, and then said, "Speaking of which, you took me from under the noses of over twenty police officers earlier. They're not that stupid. They'll find me eventually,"

"Eventually, yes – but it won't be _you_ they'll find after we're done here,"

Sherlock sighed angrily, as if to say _oh, please._ "So, I pick the good pill, you forget everything. You take the good pill, I forget everything. Both pills are, of course, identical," He observed, looking down his nose at them. "Of course, you know which one is which,"

"Of course _I _know. It wouldn't be a game if I didn't,"

"This isn't a game. It's pure chance," Sherlock growled.

" It's not chance, Mr Holmes, it's _chess_ and this is the only move," The cabbie corrected him again, and looked down to the table. He reached out for the second pill bottle he'd produced, and pushed it towards the consulting detective, who frowned. His sombre yet doubtful face reflected his mood perfectly, as he looked up at the cabbie from the pills with a look of distain.

"Now, did I just give you the good pill, or the bad pill?" The cabbie asked Sherlock, who looked back at him with malice at being mocked with a simple matter of chance.

He still felt slightly sick inside, and the white noise was deafening to him: there was no one nearby, and he was slowly conceding that he couldn't hear anyone, and so was – for once – not bothering to try.

If he'd had fresh nicotine patches, maybe he could have heard the thoughts of those all the way back in the flat, maybe even John's . . . But he didn't, and so his range was only small. He was stuck in a truly dire situation, unable to evade it in any way, well, none that he could see currently.

The cabbie's mouth pulled up at the corner. He could tell the lack of telepathy was getting to Sherlock, and he liked it. "Take your time. I can see you're in quite a bit of distress right now, aren't you, Mr. Holmes? Not quite so cocky now, are we? . . . I like that. I really enjoyed it in my other victims. Watching the hope drain from them first. Made all the trouble worthwhile . . . But it's even better with you. So overconfident, so very clever – all the greater distance to fall, eh, Mr. Holmes?" He jeered.

Sherlock's upper lip curled with revulsion. He looked away from his repugnant opponent, and back to the pills, shining under the bar lights of the school lab they sat in.

"The thing is, people think they can beat me – they all did. Yet I've played eleven times, and I've won. It's a pretty good success rate, even if I say so myself. Everyone's so stupid. Even you, Mr. Holmes,"

Sherlock leaned forward, abhorrence in his eyes, and clasped his gloved hands together as he rested his forearms on the table. Despite the negativity in his head, he smiled a humourless smile.

"I am many things, Mr. Hope, but I am not stupid. Take, for example, your pills. Yes, one of them will put me to sleep. However, that alone couldn't possibly make me forget everything.  
>"When you explained the consequences of <em>you<em> taking the pill, you only said you would fall asleep. You also ignored my remark about you forgetting everything if you took the bad pill. This leads me to believe that you're hiding something.  
>"Additionally, you don't seem fazed by the idea of a telepath, nor by the idea of someone who could prevent me from reading your thoughts. A bit premature, you're only supposed to have found out about these 'powers' a short while ago, and yet you're treating them as if they're extremely commonplace. Thus, I assume you were well informed about people such as myself and my 'fan' even before this . . . debacle.<br>"Inference, based on evidence and surmise: you, personally, are the one who removes the memories. You, Mr. Hope, are singularly responsible for the amnesia . . . But then why put people to sleep?"

"Do you know what it's like, having your personality ripped from you, Mr. Holmes? All your most precious memories snatched forcibly away; having everyone that you hold dear become a total stranger, all at once? It hurts. It physically _hurts_. They wouldn't have found my first victim if they hadn't heard him screaming with pain while I wiped him. I had to make a quick getaway after that, I tell you! . . . I didn't use the pills back then: I used the flip of a coin, and get them to guess the outcome.  
>"I introduced the pills to put them to sleep, so they wouldn't make such a racket. It's purely so I can get away with what I do more easily, Mr. Holmes,"<p>

"No, that's still not all it . . . You aren't bitter about your first victim, you're regretful. You just couldn't stand to see him in pain, could you? You're more compassionate than you give yourself credit for. So why do this in the first place, then?"

"Time to play, Mr. Holmes," The cabbie warned with a snarl, his eyes growing darker.

"Oh, I am playing . . . I'm guessing you found out about yourself around the time of the Silver Jubilee, didn't you? Not only that, but your wife – she didn't divorce you because she disliked you. She just didn't _remember_ you. And neither did your children. You accidentally made them forget, didn't you? Preliminary problems with your ability – I had them too, I know what it's like. But you must have thought yourself a monster, all the pain they'd suffered because of you-"

"Enough, Mr. Holmes! Pick a bottle – _now_!"

"That's it, isn't it? You made them forget gradually, over time, it was drawn out – very painful for them. So, you left. You never see them, and they don't remember you anyway. But you still love your children, at least – so why do something like this? Do you think they'd be proud?" Sherlock's voice was raised, and he knew he was getting to the cabbie.

"They'll be better off for it one day!" The cabbie hissed, slamming his clenched fist down on the table.  
>"What? . . . What are you saying?"<br>"Your fan: he approached me in the first place, _he_ found _me_, put the idea in my head. For every life I take, money goes to my kids – they'll have a better life this way!" He insisted, hatred for Sherlock clear, despising that even without his telepathy, Sherlock could see into his past.

"But they won't even know where it's coming from," Sherlock's voice crept in, low and quiet, but getting on the cabbie's nerves and sending him over the edge. He reached into his pocket, and withdrew the gun. Sherlock knew it was real; he was unsure if it was loaded.

"Jennifer Wilson. The one with the pink coat? She left a message for us – scratched a name on the floor with her fingernails," Sherlock stalled, "Clearly you weren't attentive enough to realise that. She's smarter than you, and she's dead,"

"Pick a bottle, or I'll shoot you in the head. It's the same as what I did with the others – they needed to be walked in with a gun, but you didn't because you followed me in, stupidly, of your own accord. No one's picked the gun so far, but I might have to use it if you don't pick right now,"

Sherlock stared into the yawning black chasm of the gun's barrel. He knew that the cabbie was mad enough to kill him, and wouldn't hesitate. A fleeting thought of stalling him further crossed Sherlock's mind, but he decided it would just get him shot. He'd rather go down on his own merit than be shot before he even tried. At least this way, there was a chance . . .

With great reluctance, Sherlock picked up the bottle furthest from him, and unscrewed the cap. He took off one glove, and picked up the pill, holding it up to the light for examination and then setting it down again. With a pensive face, he replaced his glove.

The cabbie's crazy, angry expression subsided; withdrawing until only a mocking face was left over, muttering, "Oh . . . That's interesting. _Very_interesting,"

He saw the cabbie's eyes flick behind him, and then he frowned. Sherlock wondered what he was looking at.

"Text a friend, did we? The police?" The cabbie's face contorted into an ugly grimace. He shook his head in disapproval: "I thought better of you, Mr. Holmes. Really, I did . . ."

He stood up as quickly as he could and aimed at the window behind Sherlock, and before the detective could turn around and see what he was shooting at, he fired his gun twice. Sherlock ducked down, his hands flying to his ears, and he clasped his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he was sure the gunfire was over, his ears ringing, he emerged from under the table. He was flustered; his eyes were wide, and he was unable to hear very well. He looked about frantically, standing up and turning around to face the window. There was broken glass everywhere from the shattered window, and across the courtyard, there was a broken window in the adjacent building, smashed with the impact of the bullet.

The cabbie had shot whoever had been standing there, suspecting them of coming to rescue him. It clearly looked like a police officer, though, or else he could have shot one of the cleaners who had left this building open.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes," The cabbie cocked the handgun, and as Sherlock whisked around, aimed it at his head. "Time's up. No one's coming to help you now. So, together . . . Let's take our medicine,"

Sherlock sat down, beginning to feel extremely uneasy, his ears still ringing. He could barely hear the commands Hope was issuing, but he knew exactly what they were. The cabbie had killed a police officer; he would kill Sherlock too, unless he picked a pill. Sherlock's choice had to be right. There was no way out of this. None at all.

He picked up his pill, and held it to his, lips, trying not to me the cabbie's gaze. Hope smirked at his opponent, and began to provoke him, kicking him when he was down:  
>"You know what? You've got some nerve, alerting he police in the cab on the way,"<br>"I didn't," Sherlock returned quickly, a little insulted.  
>"I don't like that, Mr. Holmes. Lying, too. No good . . . No, I think for you, it'll be something special. I've learned a new trick – Anterograde amnesia. You know what that is, don't you? You don't forget the past. You forget the future. Every five minutes, let's say – every five minutes, you'll forget what happened in the previous five minutes. You'll be stuck at this moment for your whole life. You'll be a burden for your family, your friends. You won't be able to solve crimes. You'll always forget what's been said, always greeting everyone in the room like they've just turned up out of the blue . . . Yeah, I think that's what you deserve . . ."<p>

Sherlock tried not to show his fear, though he didn't know much about bravery. He couldn't be stoical as well as John could, and he couldn't break down at all. He wouldn't give Jeff Hope the satisfaction, though the losses he could suffer were dawning on him, coursing through him like poison in his veins.

If he were to lose his memory, he would lose his entire hard drive. All the information he'd processed and stored, all the goings on he observed in everyday London, all the dirt he had on anyone and everyone he chose to examine . . . All gone. Just like _that_. True, he didn't have many friends he'd be sad to lose, but he had to admit that he'd miss Mycroft, though it made him shiver to confess this fact.

He would miss John, though. His ex-army doctor assistant; his new friend, who didn't judge him like the others, and was more accepting than anyone of who he was, and his ways . . . He would miss that almost as much as he would miss his intimate knowledge of which varieties of underwear were most commonly worn by homosexuals, and the best way to get out of handcuffs in under a minute.

He wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes anymore. Of course, he could gradually rebuild his knowledge base, but he'd never be _quite_ the same. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, could die tonight. The cabbie was a murderer, whose victims walked around, the embers of life still alive within them, but ultimately lost forever. He wouldn't let it happen. He had to find a way out of this.

He opened his mouth, and slowly began to raise the pill to it. The cabbie did the same. There was no escape, there was no reprieve, there was no . . . No . . .

No one?

_God_ I hope Sherlock doesn't get in the way . . .

Sherlock ducked, holding his head down just as he had before, and he heard two gunshots just as before, but from across the court. Someone had fired at them through the open window, at Sherlock and the cabbie, at Jeff Hope, and . . .

In an infinite moment, the pill careered downwards to the floor, spinning, and glinting in the white neon light. Sherlock's shocked eyes made out the grey flecks in the capsule from under the table, as it contacted the tiled brown floor, clicking and clattering noiselessly to his impaired ears.

Eventually, it rolled away, far away, under a nearby counter next to the dying body of Jeff Hope.

Shrugging off the shock blanket for the hundredth time, Sherlock shuffled away from the ambulance and Lestrade, towards a nearby police car, throwing the offending orange garment in through its open window with abandon. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, his face sullen yet impressively neutral considering what he'd just been through.

He hadn't told the police much, of course. Nothing about the cab driver's' _talents_, or his own, or those of his mysterious 'fan'. He'd told them there was a special chemical agent in the pill that reduced activity in the Hippocampus, and that was all which he'd been told by the perpetrator. It had been enough to fool Lestrade. He doubted it would be enough to fool any scientifically minded person, barring Anderson, but then again Sherlock could plead ignorance. He only knew what he'd been told . . . that was the line he was going with, anyway.

He hadn't given them any information or deductions whatsoever on the 'unknown' shooter, either.

He was about to reach into his pocket for his BlackBerry, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw his new flatmate. He was dressed differently than before – or maybe it was just a new jumper, perhaps on top of the old one for warmth?

No, no . . . Something else. Sherlock's brow furrowed. John caught his eye, and came running over as quickly as his still-annoyingly painful leg would allow him.

"Sherlock! Why did you – you went with the bloody cab driver? Are you _insane_?"

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled, surveying up and then down. His expression was blank as his brain calculated until it reached the obvious conclusion, but John hideously misinterpreted his lack of speech and confusion.

". . . Sherlock? – Sherlock, you didn't – I . . . You, remember me, don't you?"

Sherlock started, alarmed that his friend would come to this erroneous conclusion, but then smirked at the fact that he had. John realised he'd made a mistake, and looked significantly annoyed.

"You had me going then! Why didn't you say something? Were you doing that on purpose?"

"Why would I do that on purpose?" Sherlock asked.  
>"Because you're an idiot," John replied. Both men looked sternly at one another for a tense second.<br>They both laughed at once.

"So," Sherlock laughed, and reverted back to what he'd said earlier in the cab: "You've got questions,"  
>John puffed out his cheeks, and shrugged. He shook his head.<br>"Aside from a hundred which you already know, no – no questions here,"

Sherlock sighed, and stepped a little closer. Then, using his most frank and lowest voice, so he was sure only John could hear, he told him:  
>"I'm psychic, John. I read minds. There's also a thing called, 'psychometrics' which I'm getting better at with age. I dabble in telepathic communication, too. Problem?"<p>

"Is that it?" John asked in a tone of mock surprise, a dubious expression on his face. He laughed again: "I can't believe this. Of all the people I could have a flat share with, I get, I get-"  
>"Someone like yourself? No, no – I know about you, remember? Don't go acting all surprised. Besides, I can see it - it's obvious from your clothes," Sherlock told him, giving his clothes a visual onceover.<p>

"My clothes?" John asked loudly, and a nearby officer turned round, curiosity aroused. John acknowledged him with a nod, and he turned back to his work, his interest fading.

John repeated what he said again, pulling at his jumper, and then looking the sleuth in the eye: "My clothes . . . ? People can – sorry, I mean, _you_ can tell from my clothes? Or, or are you just reading my mind again?"

"Oh, I didn't need to. Don't worry, John, nobody can tell from your clothes, but you need to get the powder burns off your fingers – I don't suppose you'd do time for this, but let's avoid the court case, shall we?"  
>"Court case?"<p>

"Come on, John, you killed him. Look – the collar of your t-shirt above your jumper, or should I say collar of your vest? It's not a shirt, it's too a thin material. Of course, thin material can be used because it's fashionable at present, but you're ex-military, you're probably not worried about that now, are you? So, vest. Why haven't you got a proper t-shirt on?  
>"In addition, we have the change in jumper from the beige cable knit jumper to the black and white large stripe sweater. Why change, when both are equally substantial enough to wear in this weather? You'd only been wearing the cable knit one since after we got back from Angelo's, so it's not an issue of it being dirty. Also, you have a rucksack, indicating that a change of clothes may have actually been brought with you: forethought. Good, shows intent and necessary preparation.<br>"Now, observe your hands – power burns, yes, but aside from that – under your fingernail, there's trace of blood. You've clearly tried to get it all off, and you've done a good job too, although you've neglected your right ring finger. Too bad, I wasn't entirely sure until I saw that.  
>"So, conclusion: it took one or two minutes, after being shot, before you could stand back up and kill the cabbie when I was in immediate danger of taking the pill . . .?"<p>

Sherlock noticed that John's fists were clenched as he stared up at him with unblinking eyes, and he braced himself to dodge any minute: it wouldn't be the first time his deductions had earned him a punch in the mouth for his troubles. However, John went from being very tense to suddenly sighing, and relaxing, as though defeated. He shut his eyes, and rubbed them with his left hand.

"You're right. I shot the cabbie, after he shot me. I bet he didn't see that coming! Actually, usually when I get shot, I die, but this time I just regenerated. He was a lousy shot, your perp. Didn't even hit any major arteries! . . . There wasn't even much blood, it was a relatively small trauma for that distance away – but there was enough blood that I had to get rid of the t shirt, and the jumper.  
>"The vest and sweater and the rucksack I carried them in were the first things I laid hands on before I came, when I realised what was going on because of the GPS tracker. I was in a panic, I should have really thought that one through more than <em>I might get killed<em>!"  
>He shook his head, and looked at Sherlock again.<p>

His friend was smiling, looking almost proud. He was, actually: Sherlock Holmes, as he himself and the whole world knew him, had been saved by John Watson and his remarkable skills, tactical and otherwise.

"You were going to take that pill, weren't you?"He asked Sherlock.  
>"Of course I wasn't, I was stalling, I knew you'd regenerate, and I knew you'd shoot him. I was just biding my time, is all," He lied.<br>"No you weren't! You thought I was dead! . . . Granted, you knew I'd come back eventually, but you didn't know how soon! He had a gun and you were in no position to stall!"  
>Sherlock sighed, but didn't reply. John felt proud, in the knowledge that he'd saved Sherlock, and that he'd won that particular argument. They began to walk away from the crime scene together.<p>

Sherlock heard something John couldn't, and rolled his eyes. The doctor didn't see, and he decided from then on to be discreet. He didn't want an extended dialogue, verbal or otherwise, with _him_ at the moment.  
>He thought loudly, 'Not now, Mycroft,'<p>

Are you alright? I heard what happened. We should talk about it. You could have gotten hurt. I shall be having words with Lestrade about letting you go off on your own like that.

'I work best alone. It wasn't Lestrade's choice, it was mine. And besides, it's not your problem. Run along, now.'

Another case cracked, eh? How very public spirited of you!

'You don't actually care, do you? No, you don't. Go away.'

Has it ever occurred to you that you and I are on the same team? We could work so well together. This petty feud . . . It's awful. And you know how it always upset Mummy.

'Me? _I _upset her? . . . It wasn't me, Mycroft!'

Oh yes, because I remember how very well she took your _big news_. How many stitches was it? Eleven?

'That was an accident! She didn't mean – _Anyway_, goodbye, Mycroft. Don't kidnap John again. And _do_ try not to start a war before we get home, you know what it does for the traffic.'

". . . Sherlock? Are you with me? – Is this something you're going to do often? Just, plain ignore me?"

John's voice faded in as Sherlock ignored Mycroft's further thoughts, and turned to his friend, excusing himself: "Sorry. Psychic stuff. Sometimes you get into fights with your brother telepathically. It's awfully dull," He assured the doctor.

"Seriously? . . . I didn't know you had a brother!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, but John ignored him, and asked, "Where _is _your brother?"

"Ummm . . . _There_," Sherlock told him lightly, pointing vaguely in the direction of a shiny black car, one which John remembered from earlier in the evening. Standing by it was the man who had referred to himself as Sherlock's enemy.

"_Him_? Sherlock, that, that's the man who-"  
>"He kidnapped you? He has a nasty habit of doing that. Here's all you need to know about Mycroft: he says has a minor position in the British Government, when he basically <em>is <em>the British Government. His assistant – the one with the red hair next to him – she goes by several names, but the one she used with you was _probably_Anthea, that's what she uses with civilians-"  
>"Wait, Anthea? She hasn't got red hair – she . . ."<p>

He looked again at the man, whose assistant beside him wore a black dress and suit jacket that he'd seen before, but she looked totally different. Red hair, grey eyes, pale complexion . . . _Not_ the brunette, brown-eyed, olive skinned woman from before, unless–

"No! . . . No! That's . . . Do – do you just attract freaks, Sherlock? Me, the cabbie, _Anthea_-"

"And someone else. The cabbie – I couldn't read his mind," Sherlock said, a smile creeping across his face.  
>"And why are you so chuffed about that?" John asked, puzzled, as they crossed the street.<br>"He said he had a protector, who was blocking him. As he was dying, he gave me a clue – _Moriarty_,"  
>"What's Moriarty?"<p>

Sherlock smirked, and they locked eyes.  
>"<em>I have no idea . . .<em>"


	8. Epilogue

_**AN: Just a quick epilogue. Thanks for all your reviews, and I hope this finishes this instalment off neatly for you! Thanks for reading - B.**_

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><p>"Ah, John! Come in, come in, sit down – oh, you brought tea, I see. Biscuits too – Just tea for me, thanks. I'm just telling the inspector here about the first case I was ever personally interested in . . . Do you mind?"<p>

Sherlock lit a cigarette, not waiting for a reply or looking at the doctor, then threw the lighter behind him with abandon onto the floor. He drew from it, pausing extremely briefly to tip his head back and blow smoke into the air. The grey fumes billowed in the otherwise still air from his chalky white lips, as he continued:

"Boy named Carl . . . Carl Powers. Very interesting – people said it was tragic. _Tragic accident, so awful, such a waste, _so on and so forth – Of course, I knew it was far from an accident. But I was only sixteen . . . No one would listen to me," He was silent for a second, and his eyes flicked to John for a fraction of a second. He looked tired. Probably hadn't slept much last night – but irritable, so maybe he'd been woken up multiple times. John sipped his tea, though it was sure to burn him, so soon after being prepared. He carried on regardless.

"Carl was a swimmer. Country boy, up in London for a competition. It was said by all that he had potential, so much _potential_. I doubt it was all his own natural talent – well, not merely _human_ talent. I've speculated for years on the subject to myself – there were pictures in the paper. He was built, that lad. Huge. Only slightly older than I was, but a lot stronger. Not that much of a mutation that people noticed, but amazing, still. My money's on increased muscle mass, or some sort of 'super' strength, but I suppose we'll never know. He suffered from eczema, though. Took a lot of medication for it.  
>"Carl drowned. It was at a pool not far from here-" He stopped, flicking ash into a nearby tray. It seemed to scatter in slow motion, the particles of burnt matter littering themselves, distributing in a totally random fashion in the general direction of the tray. He watched it for a fraction of a second, before drawing on the cigarette again. He shut his eyes, holding in the smoke until he choked. He had never been proficient at smoking, despite enjoying it.<p>

". . . As I say, it seemed like an accident to me. But that amount of muscle mass, that amount of – strength? Ability? All this, and he was unable to save himself? They said it was some sort of seizure . . . There was something . . ." He shook his head this way and that, indicating: "There was something _off_ about it. I could see, and I was sixteen . . . Fuck, I could see, and I was recently _bereaved_!"

He laughed sourly, drawing on the cigarette once more before lowering his slightly shaking hand to the arm of the armchair, leaving it there to deposit ash on the rug. John pursed his lips, and shifted, uncomfortable. He looked down; Sherlock didn't spare him a passing glance.

"My d- . . . My father, John. He died, suddenly, unexpectedly . . ." Sherlock waved these things away, trying to make it look like he didn't care, adding, "But he wasn't the best parent in the world. Not a nice man, not . . ." His voice lowered, and he frowned slightly, his eyes looking far away, ". . . Not very nice at all . . ."

He trailed off, staring at a fixed point on the floor, his eyes unfocussed. After a few seconds, he started, and said, "The case! The case . . . There was something about Carl's case, something strange. They found all his possessions, everything was in order, where it should have been, and yet - There was something strange, that bothered me, that convinced me that it was murder. It was-"

"It was his shoes," John finished. For the first time since he began the recount of his first case, Sherlock looked at him properly. He stared at John with a queer gaze, squinting in disbelief. He opened his mouth, and shut it again, confused. However, he replied fairly quickly.

"Remarkable! How could you have possibly-"  
>"Carl's shoes were missing. You thought they were taken by the killer – still do," John added, putting his face in his hand and rubbing his eyes like a man deprived of years of sleep. He sighed, and it was the most drawn out, sorry thing Sherlock had ever witnessed.<p>

"How-"  
>"Sherlock, I've heard this story. I hear it up to six times an hour – sometimes you . . . Well, sometimes you wake up in the night, and you come into my room, and you tell me <em>my money's on increased muscle mass<em> . . . The inspector's not here, Sherlock. We haven't seen Lestrade since Jeff Hope, six months ago. I don't . . . Look, Sherlock there's no easy way to put this, but – well, you've got Anterograde amnesia, Sherlock. For six months now . . . And you asked me for the cup of tea five minutes ago - Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock said, frowning deeply, confused. John leant forward, his eyes looking hopeful, but face looking crushed and lifeless.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, discarding his cigarette, and strode swiftly to the window. John stood too, though his companion was now facing the window and couldn't see him. Sherlock frantically put his hands on his hips, but quickly put one hand to his forehead, rubbing it with agitation.

"Sherlock?"  
>"I – I just need, to . . . I just . . ."<p>

There was a moment or two of silence. The air was still, and outside no cars nor people passed by. It was entirely silent, extremely close, just for that one serene moment - the moment before-

Sherlock turned around, face blank, and took out a cigarette.

He fixed his eyes on John, and suddenly looked surprised:  
>"Ah, John! Come in, come in, sit down – oh, you brought tea, I see. Biscuits too – Just tea for me, thanks. I'm just telling the inspector here about the first case I was ever personally interested in . . . Do you mind?"<p>

Drenched in sweat, Sherlock rolled over onto side as soon as he was conscious. His breathing was quickened, but he didn't open his eyes for a few minutes. For a crazy moment, he wasn't sure if it was safe to.

He didn't ever start when he woke up: more like gradually opened his eyes. He had never been one for bolting upright after a nightmare: most of the time, he was paralysed, unable to move for a few minutes. He suspected that it was his lack of energy after days of no sleep and no food that usually did this to him. Thankfully this time he could move: he attributed it with wordless thanks to John's insistence that he eat some Chinese food.

He was coldly frightened - in the way that he only was when he'd woken up from a nightmare - that the world he'd just viewed was the real one. He'd never tell anyone, but his nightmares would scare him sometimes. They always included his powers; they always included his dad; they always uprooted the most immediate fear he'd experienced.

Strangely enough, his dreams were always in shades of grey, or black and white. This still didn't help him to distinguish them from real life.

He always smoked in his dreams, and he never had the common sense to read people's minds. It all contributed to the feeling of helplessness he experienced while having them, which was close to panic, at times. Tonight's was no exception; in fact, it was the worst he'd had in years. He hadn't had many cases involving a serial amnesia-inducer wanting to steal his life and his occupation, everything he enjoyed, away from him, though.

As he slowly became more aware, he sat up in the darkness, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He looked at his phone, unlocking it, and observing the time: after midnight. But he remembered exactly what had happened after the crime scene . . . He'd not taken the pill, that he'd never taken the chance –John had saved him.

He groaned with exhaustion, and lay back down with a sigh. He'd neglected to even change out of his suit for the day when he'd gone to sleep, aside from kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket before throwing it blithely onto the floor. He noticed the jacket was on a hanger now, on his wardrobe door, and he remembered something about John being in the room at one point. He wondered whether John had judged him for being so messy, or if he was regretting his decision to move in with him because of this . . . He decided he probably didn't mind. He _knew_ that Sherlock hadn't slept in a week, and was absurdly tired. He'd probably forgive him _one _suit jacket on the floor . . .

He hoped the world he was about to return to in his chimeras would less hideous this time, as he drifted away, shutting his eyes.

He hoped John hadn't heard the dream where he'd taken the pill. He never wanted him to see, hear, or experience in any way that world, because of him. He'd made a true friend, for what he was sure was the first time ever, and he was beginning to understand that to be a burden, or a hassle, or completely obtuse in your attitude toward a true friend was less than acceptable.

This, strangely after many years, was personal development on Sherlock's behalf.

Quiet, at 221b Baker Street, was hard to come by it seemed. There was always someone, coming or going: consulting the consulting detective, more often than not. Literally no callers for the doctor so far, in fact. They were all for Sherlock, and they made it very difficult to get any peace around the flat. It was hectic, yes, but it was thrillingly exciting, so it was acceptable. John had reached this conclusion in the few days he'd considered living there.

But not tonight. Tonight, his flatmate had graced sleep with his attention. John had knocked on his door earlier, at about one o'clock, inquiring:  
>"Sherlock, I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson if she can put some washing on, do you want anything cleaned?"<br>The door had swept slowly open, to reveal the consulting detective sprawled, fully-clothed, face-down on top of his duvet. He didn't stir at the sound of the creaking door, nor at John's apologies; never had the doctor seen a deeper sleep in anyone before. He was dead to the world. Better than actually dead, John thought, as he ran over the evening's events again.

However, at the back of his mind, a thought that wasn't his own – just like the one telling him to keep his gun loaded before Sherlock had left on his bloody suicide mission – spoke to him. He was beginning to realise these thoughts were Sherlock communicating with him, _telepathically_. Even in his sleep, he was still as bossy as ever:  
>No. Just give me some peace and quiet . . . Please.<p>

So, John had travelled downstairs after hanging up Sherlock's expensive yet crumpled suit jacket, which he'd left in his exhaustion on the floor. He'd then given Mrs. Hudson the washing, made a cup of tea, and sat down at his work desk nearly two hours ago. It was at the side of the lounge: it was perfect, because there was natural light from the window in the daytime. Besides, the window itself was perfect for staring out of and daydreaming, which so far was all John had gotten around to doing, despite the fact it was mostly dark outside save the orange luminescence of a street lamp. He'd meant to look for jobs on the internet, but thoughts about what had happened earlier racing around his head at a thousand miles per hours hadn't been conducive to his task. Nor to sleep, he'd found out soon enough.

So, he was in his pyjama bottoms and second favourite jumper at half-past-midnight, staring at the _Quest Search_ text bar, wondering which search criteria to use for medical positions in this area. His favourite jumper had been stuffed covertly into Mrs. Hudson's laundry basket, with most of the blood washed out. She'd promised to do their washing until one of them bought a washing machine, although John supposed Sherlock was apathetic about washing machines, and he straight up couldn't afford one. It looked like she was going to be washing their clothes for a long time . . . John supposed he'd have to do the washing in the end, being the one who would die last, or, more likely, _never_.

The thing with the jumper was, though, if she'd wanted to, the landlady could have easily put two and two together and asked questions about the still-visible blood stain. However, it clearly wasn't in her nature to pry in a malevolent way: she hadn't batted an eyelid at John and Sherlock moving in together, other than to inquire _'if they'd be needing two bedrooms'_, which was just a simple misunderstanding. He was sure she'd find out about what he and Sherlock were one day, but he couldn't be bothered to think about that right now. He doubted it would be a major issue.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, knitting his fingers together behind his head in repose. He shut his eyes for a minute, breathing deeply. He wouldn't let himself fall asleep: not here. It would be bad form, and he'd probably get a crick in his neck like there was no tomorrow.

Slowly, a smile crept across his face. He realised he could hear whispers . . . They came from upstairs. For a few seconds, he'd thought they were voices next door at Mrs. Turner's, or Mrs. Hudson's television, but they sounded a little too familiar, and they were upstairs, too. He knew what they were for sure now: the first time, it'd been when he was outside Sherlock's room on his way to pick up his washing, and he'd thought it was the detective talking to himself in hushed tones. However, the things he was saying . . . They weren't very nice. Unpleasant if he'd heard them correctly. He knew what they were now: he'd worked it out.

This time, he heard Sherlock's voice, and his own. He also heard the voice of Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade, though seldom as often as his own. Not even Sherlock's voice came up as often as his own. He scarcely heard what they were saying, but when he did, he understood exactly what it meant and how he could hear it.

He wondered if Sherlock habit of projecting his dreams – and, like before, his nightmares – unintentionally in his sleep had been one of the reasons for him never having a flatmate before. Well, that, and the fact that he was quite a messy person, when it came to tidying up and the effort taken to do so.

He wondered if the only reason he'd accepted John as a flatmate in the first place was because, being abnormal himself, he'd be able to accept that Sherlock couldn't control whether his dreams or nightmares were bouncing around inside his head in the middle of the night alongside his own thoughts.

Well, John decided he didn't mind it – right now, he even _liked_ it. They were extremely _complimentary_ thoughts, after all.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and once again leant forward and faced the laptop screen. He stretched his arms out in front of him, and opened up a new tab on his browser: he opened up the post function on his blog.

_Title_? He'd heard Sherlock refer to the case in a rather poetic way, most unlike him, over Chinese takeaway earlier. He shook his head, on the verge of laughter, inspiration to write flowing through him in a way he'd never felt before: to write about the case.

Slowly, he typed out a four word summary of the craziest days of his life so far letter-by-letter:

_**A Study In Silver**_**, by Doctor John H. Watson.**

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><p><strong><em><strong>This story shall continue some time next year, in a sequel that'll most likely be called '<strong>_**The Gifted League**_**' - I'll keep you posted! **_**


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